In Between
by NotMarge
Summary: Some introspective into Hank McCoy's life between First Class and Days of Future Past. Author's note: Not a pairing. Not in the least.
1. Numbers and Pancakes

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 1: Numbers and Pancakes

* * *

Henry Phillip "Hank" McCoy walked alone through the silent halls of the vast mansion.

It was quiet.

It almost always was now.

It hadn't always been so.

After she had left with Erik and Charles had recovered sufficiently from his crippling bullet wound, they and the others had begun "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters".

Using Cerebro as before, they had carefully searched out mutant children to bring to the school. Children whose parents, though they loved them, needed help from people. People who understood their strange offspring and could help them control and understand their sometimes terrifying abilities.

They had also found a few select people to help them. To teach the children, cook the food, clean the mansion, provide guidance and support.

It was almost like what a permanent summer camp would be like if it was a year round thing. He supposed anyway. He'd never had gone to camp. They made you take off your shoes in front of people there.

Hank had been a scientist still. That was where he was most comfortable. In a lab. Surrounded by his friends. Bubbling beakers, technology, charts, schematics. Hypothesis and theories and scientific research.

Thoughts of her.

Every time he caught sight of his blue form, blue fur, orange eyes, whether in a mirror or just reaching out his hand, he was reminded of her.

Raven.

Her blue DNA, his adamant desperation, had made him permanently blue. And furry.

Raven.

Except now she wanted to be called Mystique.

He'd decided he'd call her anything she liked if she would only come back. If she would only quit her mission with Erik, her mission driven by fear and hate, and come back.

Of course, she never did.

She was very absolute. Once she believed in something, she followed it to the end.

It was something he admired and respected about her.

And was afraid would get her killed some day.

* * *

Of course, Charles had sent young scholars to him who showed aptitude and interest for the sciences. And would not scoff at his blue fur and simian-like appearance.

Hank, ever the accommodating, congenial, blue-furred creature he was, dutifully met with them. Talked with them. Showed them experiments and theories he thought they could work with. Nothing too intense or dangerous.

His own personal serum, for example. That particular project never saw the light of day or any other time that people might be around. Only in the dead of night would he hesitantly bring it out and toy with it hopefully.

Most students came and went pretty regularly.

One little girl, no more than eight, followed him everywhere like a little puppy. She had short brown hair and vibrant green eyes. Her name was Chloe and she was a telekinetic. Hank suspected she had a form of dyslexia because whenever she was given a number no matter how simple or complex, she would inevitably write or say it backward.

One day he turned to her as she was pretending she wasn't following him.

"Chloe, why are you following me?"

She shuffled around on her tiny sneakered feet as though trying to invent a suitable reason. Finally, she shrugged.

"I just wanted to touch your hair."

"It's fur," he corrected automatically but not unkindly.

"Fur," she amended.

He hesitated, then knelt down and held out his hand. She shuffled a moment more and moved toward him. Putting her tiny hand in his large claw, her face expressed a sense of childish wonder. Then broke into the largest, brightest smile Hank had ever seen.

"It's soft! And warm!" she whispered excitedly. "You're like a living teddy bear!"

On impulse, he bared his teeth for her consideration. She stared at them, riveted.

"Teddy bears don't have teeth like this though," he murmured with resignation.

She grinned even broader if that was possible.

"The ones that protect kids do! I'd never have another scary dream again!"

Hank broke his solemn countenance and chuckled before he realized he'd done so.

"126," he said without warning.

"621," she replied automatically.

She continued stroking his blue fur between the elbow and wrist. He wasn't used to being touched. But she reminded him of his little sister. Or would have if he'd had one. His parents had chosen not to have any more children after discovering his unique baby monkey feet. He wondered if a little sister would have been like this.

Then he had a thought.

"Do you like pancakes?" he asked suddenly.

She looked confused.

"Yeah, who doesn't?"

He smiled.

"Have you seen people make them?"

She shook her head.

"Come on," he said and turned back the way they had come.

They went to the kitchen which was vacant for the moment. Hank got out pancake mix and other various ingredients. Chloe helped organize everything, her curiosity peaked.

When the griddle was ready and everything was mixed and prepared, Hank stood with a black spatula in one hand. He gestured to Chloe and, with her mind, she carefully poured the pancake batter onto the hot surface. The pale, liquid circle bubbled within the minute.

"672," Hank said.

"276," Chloe replied.

Hank shook his head and Chloe's entire countenance fell.

"Picture the number in your head," he said patiently. "Got it?"

She stared at the pancake for a moment, then looked back at him expectantly.

"Flip the pancake."

She did and looked up at him again.

"Now flip the number in your head."

She looked down at the pancake in concentration.

"672," Hank said.

"672," Chloe repeated.

Hank grinned and nodded. She beamed and at the appropriate time, lifted the pancake with her mind and gentle deposited it onto a waiting plate.

Chloe shyly floated the pancaked plate in the air toward Hank and he took it in his large, blue furry hands.

Chloe and Hank flipped lots of pancakes and numbers that day. They even added different ingredients to different ones.

* * *

The next day, Chloe's parents, full of fear and confusion about rumors of mutant disappearances, came and took Chloe away from the school.

And she disappeared too. Hank never saw her again.

* * *

**Why Chloe? Why dyscalculia, also called math dyslexia? Because I have it (can't be cured but neat little tricks like this help) and I like pancakes. My name's not Chloe though. Bummer.**

**Interested in more?**

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Goodbyes and the Silence

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 2: Goodbyes and the Silence

* * *

"Just thought I'd come and say goodbye, Hank."

Hank reflexively looked at the proffered hand as though it were a snake that might bite him. Then he looked up at the person attached to it.

Alex Summers stood still, for once without trick or con, holding out his hand to the slightly-nerdy-guy-now-turned-blue-furred-creature he had so often ridiculed. Even though it had all been in good fun, well, _Alex's_ good fun, it had always hurt Hank a little inside.

Hank shook the hand without speaking.

Alex seemed to want to say something but then silently nodded his blond head and turned away.

Hank watched him go and then spoke without realizing he meant to.

"You don't have to go, you know. You're safe here."

Alex stopped and turned back.

"Yeah, I know," he said casually. "But, well, you know, service to my country and all."

Hank nodded.

"Still don't have to. Pretty serious war."

Alex shrugged.

"Ah, who's gonna hurt me out there? Get in a tight spot, just throw some rings and run, right?"

Hank stood silent for a moment. He never was very good at talking with people in a non-scientific capacity. Especially people who were leaving. Especially people who were leaving to go off and probably die.

"Yeah, guess so."

Alex turned again to go and made it all the way to the door before turning back one final time with a playful smirk.

"Hey, Beast. Stay blue, man."

Hank rolled his eyes at him. Alex nodded again, more solemnly this time, and left.

Alone, Hank stood in front of the table at which he'd momentarily forgotten his purpose.

"Bye, Havoc."

* * *

And that was the way it went. Children, staff, acquaintances, leaving, escaping the oncoming storm of mutant hate and fear.

Hank wanted to tell them to stay. That they were safer together. In a pack, like wolves or something. But he didn't know how. Communication was more of Charles' thing, not his. And if Charles couldn't make them stay, no one could.

Rumors abounded of those arrested or simply disappeared. Erik, now preferring to be called "Magneto", eluding capture time and time again.

And if he was free, then perhaps _she_ was free with him.

And so they left.

Until there was only him. And Charles.

Alone in the silence and emptiness.

Just when he was starting to get used to the bustle and noise and people.

They were gone.

* * *

"I can't sleep."

That refined accent, never dropping hints of self-pity. Just a simple statement.

"Yeah, me neither," Hank responded absently.

Silence. As if that refined person was waiting for him to read his mind.

_Sorry, not my mutant power, Charles. That'd be you._

"Hank, I can't sleep."

Hank sighed and dropped his attention from his precious experiments. People were fine in small doses, except for her (she was fine in any dose) but they tended to . . . talk. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk. He just didn't always know what to say.

He turned to the man in the wheelchair. The man who, up until recently, had taken great pride in his appearance. Neatly kept hair, cleanly shaven face, crisply laundered suits.

Now he was looking haggard and drawn. A five o'clock shadow outlined his face and his hair looked greasy. Wrinkled pajamas and slippers on his feet. His once clear blue eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

Hank wasn't interested in personal appearances. After all, he was a blue, furry monster.

_A living teddy bear!_ Chloe echoed encouragingly in his mind. He brushed it away.

But he knew Charles. From before the end of the school. And that Charles would have scoffed at this Charles.

"Pain?" he asked casually.

Charles nodded, looking haunted. The misery and pain tried to escape in his voice, but his gentile upbringing stoically pushed them aside.

"In my head. Mutants screaming. In pain and fear. It never stops. I can't shut it out to sleep, to eat. And I can't reach them all. It hurts too much."

Hank listened silently. He'd heard it all before.

"And more frequently now, it's humans too. They're afraid. They don't understand. They don't know."

This same outpouring. So many times.

"I can't help them all. I can't stop all their pain and fear. It's all so . . . hopeless."

And he'd listen again. Because that's what friends do. They listen.

"Sometimes I wish I had the power to just destroy the whole world and everything in it. Just to make all their pain and mine stop," Charles whispered quietly.

A chill ran up Hank's spinal column. Charles could do it. He had the power, the untapped rage within him. Hank felt its sleeping form for he had it within himself as well.

"Hank, I _need_ to sleep."

_Yeah and I need her to come back. Just to know she's okay. We all have needs._

"Hank, I need you to help me."

Hank nodded.

"Okay, Charles."

* * *

And so Hank threw himself more devoutly into his work.

It was a lot easier now that there were no people around to distract him. On the other hand, now that is was so big and lonely in the mansion, there was less to drive back the yawning darkness.

The hopelessness. The emptiness.

While others were out there, fighting for freedom for humans, for mutants, he was locked away in a solitary mansion.

While Charles seemed to be withdrawing ever closer within himself.

And she, _she_ was out there somewhere.

But Hank couldn't leave. If he did, Charles would be completely alone. Abandoned.

And that wasn't what his friend needed.

So he worked. He worked on his serum. That serum that whispered hope to him. And when that serum gave him back his human form, he would adapt it to give Charles some telepathic peace.

Maybe with a little something extra thrown in for good measure.

* * *

**You know, I'm actually pleasantly surprised that people enjoyed Beast cooking pancakes with a little kid and helping her begin to overcome her dyslexia.**

**Then again, underneath all the superpowers and funky appearances, they are just evolved beings who deserve respect and love too, right?**

**And Charles' wishing to destroy the world? That actually happened in some X-Men comic. Creepy.**

**Anyway . . .**

**Thanks to theFGnat, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, my mystery guest reviewer (thanks for the pancake!), and brigid1318 (hey I remember you from Warm Bodies! Beast fan or Nicholas Hoult fan? I'm both. *grins) for your positive reviews.**

**Thanks as well to DeathFrisbee221, Imagination Queen, Kh530, OpalFyr, and cherryblossomfallingintherain for adding your support to this little fic.**


	3. Dreams and Visions

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 3: Dreams and Visions

* * *

He sat alone in the quiet laboratory, syringe in one hand. His furry, blue claw was shaking slightly. He watched slightly opaque fluid undulate in the glass vial, gathering his courage.

_You don't have to_, something inside him whispered.

_Yes, I do. I really do._

And he did.

To look normal again. To not feel like a freak. He needed that.

No one was left but him and Charles. And the delivery guy. Of course, the delivery guy could be instructed by phone to just leave the supplies and go on his way. Then Hank could emerge and gather everything up after he was gone.

But then he would still see himself. From the corners of his eyes. Hear his own slightly distorted voice. Run his tongue over the sharpened points of his creature teeth.

Weird as it sounded, beastly blue furry monsters still had to take showers, brush their teeth, groom their . . . fur.

He wasn't a feral animal out in the woods, was he? He was still . . . civilized.

Except sometimes he wasn't.

For example, the other day when the serum had failed, again, and he had destroyed his workstation in a rage. Overturned the table, smashed the vials and beakers. Roared his frustration at the hopelessness of the entire situation.

Even though intellectually he knew that it wasn't hopeless. Just another stepping stone to success.

And so, for all those reasons and many more, he must.

Taking a long, deep breath, Hank McCoy steadied himself. And sank the needle deep into his arm, ignoring the stab of pain as it punctured his furry flesh.

She floated through his thoughts now as she always did during these times.

_And, Beast, never forget. Mutant and proud._

He closed his orange eyes against the memory.

_If only, Raven._

Then he pushed the plunger and injected the burning serum into his waiting veins.

Moments passed as he felt it spread through his body. He waited.

And fell to the floor with an anguished snarl as the pain overwhelmed him.

* * *

She was in the kitchen, in a simple blue dress, hair twisted in a ponytail, making breakfast. Music turned up, dancing, singing to herself. Something fun and light. Something full of hopes and dreams and visions.

She turned and saw him. Gave him a sweet grin.

"Morning, Sexy."

Hank walked up behind, put his arms around her, and kissed her neck right behind her ear. And she shivered. After ten years, she _still_ shivered. He loved that.

"How did you sleep?" he asked conversationally, letting go and turning to the fridge to grab the milk.

She stirred the aromatic substance in the small pot and responded.

"Pretty well. Jenny got up once to go potty but I took her 'cause you were out like a light."

He set the table with plates, glasses, and silverware.

"Thanks. My turn tonight. Just nudge me."

She turned, placing one hand on her hip, flashing her blue eyes cheekily yellow at him.

"A punch is more like it. You sleep like the dead."

They exchanged a grin and she rippled her pure blue form slowly from toes to head. He watched with hungry eyes. She was beautiful in either form. Her blue scaled form just revealed so much _more_ of her curves.

He loved it when she teased.

"Of course, after last _night_, you must be a little . . . tired," she quipped suggestively.

Their intimate gaze and the insinuations that came with it was broken by two little voices.

"Oooh, something smells good!"

"_Yes!_ Best breakfast _ever_!"

She zapped herself back to human form with a wink to him and turned to the children.

"Good morning, my sweeties!"

It wasn't time to tell the kids yet. They were still too young to keep the secret. They'd probably think they were superheroes and tell the whole world. Not really the plan. Yet.

He took biscuits out of the oven, placing a steaming one on each plate.

"Hey, his biscuit's bigger than mine!"

He kissed his four year old daughter's tangled dark hair, then ruffled his son's blond towhead affectionately.

"Well, he's two years older. So he's got a six year old-sized biscuit."

Snatching sizzling sausage links off the griddle, he placed one on each child's plate, two for his wife, and two for himself while his daughter mused about twenty year old biscuit sizes.

"Wonder how big _they'd_ be."

"As big as your head," he replied.

"No way!"

As they were intellectually discussing biscuit sizes, Raven subtly popped him on the rear to move and she doled out a scrambled egg onto each plate. While she was doing so, he picked up the small pot and with a dramatic _ta-DA, _poured small amounts of chocolate gravy on each biscuit.

"Yay! Chocolate for breakfast!" his son yelled. "Thank you, Daddy!"

He tipped his head to the woman next to him.

"Thank her. She made them."

"Thank you, Mommy!" the children enthusiastically chorused.

She grinned and kissed her pajama-clad rug rats on their cheeks and her husband lightly on the mouth.

"Ewwwww!" the children squealed together.

As they sat down to eat breakfast together, he looked at the food on his plate. Thank goodness he had a naturally high metabolism, otherwise all this rich, yummy food might pack on the pounds.

As he took a big bite of chocolate gravied biscuits (leave it to his Raven to make everything sweet), he looked at his family with contentment in his blue eyes.

Raven worked as a teacher in an elementary school with several children Charles had identified to be mutants. As their abilities were subtle and the children seemed to blend in well with society, she was keeping a covert eye on them in case they needed help.

Hank's scientific research at the university was drawing closer every day to curing cancer and paralysis. He was very excited about today's project and hoped that today would be the day they had been working toward for so very long.

And if not, well, maybe tomorrow.

"Daddy, can I have some more milk?" his daughter asked through a mouthful of egg.

He smiled adoringly at her.

"Sure."

As he reached for her cup, sharp claws suddenly emerged from his fingertips, scratching the glass and knocking it into his daughter's lap. She gasped.

"Daddy, that's _cold_! Oh, your hands!"

Raven's voice cut through his growing shock.

"Hank, did you remember to take your serum?"

His muscles rippled, his clothes tore. He let loose a feral roar. His little children screamed.

* * *

Hank jerked up out of sleep, his heart pounding. Gasping for breath. Pulling at the covers, at his clothes.

He was in his bed but he had no idea how he had gotten there.

Leaning forward, he put his arms on his knees and let his head hang. Forced himself to slow his breathing and his racing heartbeat.

Stupid dream. All just a stupid dream. Normal life, normal features. Who (especially a girl like Raven) would really want a guy like him? Even in the real world. Even in the mutant world of Alex Summers and Erik Lenshers?

He got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, turning on the light. Drew a drink of water from the cold tap. Drank it. Set the glass down. Looked in the mirror.

_I mean, look at me. Skinny, thick glasses, pale skin. . . _

He looked down in shock. Pale, thin arms. Not a spot of blue fur. He looked in the mirror, dumbfounded. Regular, _human_, blue eyes.

He looked down at his bare feet. Not a monkey toe in sight.

_I look . . . human._

* * *

**Pretty obvious I was making breakfast when part of this chapter came to me, huh? I swear I don't always write about food. *winks**

**I just realized that Nicholas Hoult is one of the few characters for whom I naturally write inner dialogue. I did it with Warm Bodies and now again with this story and 'Blue to Blue'. Why do I make him talk to himself? Why do I know exactly what his character will say when no one is listening? Or maybe I'm totally wrong and sound like a pretentious jerk right now.**

**Hmmm, well, anyway . . .**

**So thanks again to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul (Havok of course sweetie), guest reviewer lol, Brigid1318, and theFGnat for another round of loyal reviews and insightful comments. I agree with you completely.**

**Thanks to LightningRivera for your review and joining the Hoult fan club. We've got t-shirts _and_ blue teddy bears! Yay!**

**Thanks as well to Jas- El, Kyre, 3, Team Rosalie, Carolinefdq, mgaudry, mpathy and leapingwarrior97 for adding your support to this lil fic.**

**Hey Brigid1318 (seriously, get an account, they're _free_, sweetie!), you want some more Beast feels? Read my "Blue to Blue" fic.**


	4. Mirrors and Smiles

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 4: Mirrors and Smiles

* * *

Mirrors were a wonderful thing. An excellent invention. Their reflective surfaces were phenomenal. Gorgeous. Even ethereal, one might say.

Hank never thought he would be so happy to look in a mirror and see his human, geeky, bespectacled face staring back at him. Dark brown hair that always needed a trim, a style, which he never found important enough to get done. Big blue eyes that really made him look more like a kid than an adult. Weirdly shaped eyebrows people tried to tell him looked like some person or other from a sci-fi program. Eyes and brows both hidden behind thick glasses. Even his embarrassingly crooked teeth that he always tried to hide.

He loved it all now. Because it was _human_. All so very human.

If he had an instamatic camera, he might have taken a thousand pictures of himself. Looked through them with pride, gratitude, and complete mortification. Torn them up. Burned them. And taken a thousand more.

Hank couldn't remember a time when he felt more like a kid at Christmas. Not even when he _was_ a kid at Christmas.

His heart was beating rapidly, dumping copious amounts of adrenaline into his system. His heaving lungs (bet they looked human inside his chest cavity now too) couldn't seem to fill with enough air. Air that, though unchanged from the previous evening, seemed fresher and more revitalizingly oxygenated than ever before.

He pulled down the drop cloths from every mirror he could get his hands on.

And couldn't resist smiling at himself in his own bedroom mirror because it was a _human_ smile. Though he'd never tell anyone, he even made a few crazy facial expressions to his mirror self because no matter what grotesque faces he created, they were all completely _human_-looking.

He was, by nature and practice, a reserved individual. And now he chuckled at his own uncharacteristically silly behavior, not caring if he made a complete fool of himself.

He even cried a little with happiness and relief. Not that he would ever admit it because men don't cry. Not even human-turned-beast-turned-human men.

Full length mirrors were his favorite for they revealed a tall, thin, _human_-looking male form.

And suddenly he realized he was so happy to look human again that his original, stuffy old man clothing just wasn't going to fit the bill anymore. A completely human-looking, normal young man like him was going to need some better clothes. And hair.

He decided that once he and Charles got their serum-ed selves under control, they would venture out of this dark, foreboding mansion and into the world again.

Just for a little while.

And then he thought of her. A different her.

Little Chloe. The dyslexic, telekinetic, pancake girl wouldn't even recognize him anymore. Her big, blue, furry, protective, teddy bear was gone.

That gave him pause.

But only a pause.

Because he looked in the mirror again. And recognized himself.

The lonely kid from Dundee, Illinois, who graduated from Harvard at age fifteen. The brilliant kid who went to work for the CIA and designed a supersonic airplane and a psychic mutant detector. The enchanted young man who fell for a beautiful blond young woman with a welcoming smile and incredible leukocytes.

That lovely girl that he made cry.

He shouldn't have made her cry.

He should have kissed her. Or at least let her kiss him.

He should have accepted her.

* * *

Nervous and unseen, Hank stood in the door to Charles' study, willing himself to walk in.

But he stayed where he was for just a moment more. Checked his hands. Long, thin, pale fingers. _Human_ fingers.

_Oh, this is stupid. You're a grown man. A scientist. Just walk in._

And so he did.

A bedraggled Charles sat in his wheelchair, facing a large plate glass window, a vacant gaze upon his despondent face. He appeared to be looking three thousand miles past the green, wooded vista before him. Maybe more.

Hank shuffled for a moment. Checked his hands again. Skinny, _human_ fingers still. Good. That was good.

He cleared his throat loudly.

Charles didn't turn away from the peaceful view of which he was so clearly not seeing.

"Charles."

The man at the window did not look away.

"Hmm?"

Hank felt like he was about to split in two with tension.

"_Charles."_

A miserable, easily agitated Charles Xavier turned away from his ministrations, an aggravated tone coloring his usually courteous speech.

"_What_, Hank? What may I do . . ."

And stopped speaking. Eyes widened. Mouth dropped open.

Hank felt the hot blush rising in his cheeks. Checked his hands again. Human, still human. Repetitive, obsessive actions. Not good. Psychologically not good.

He didn't care.

Charles turned his wheelchair toward the tall, skinny, _human_-looking man.

"_Hank?"_

Hank McCoy grinned broadly, forgetting to hide his crooked, human teeth away behind his smiling, human mouth.

"I've got one for you too, Charles."

* * *

**Yep, our intelligent, evolved scientist Hank here is on kind of a silly high right now. But hey, if I could have my seventeen year old body back (minus all the angst and irrational hormones), I'd act a little nutty too, okay? Cut him some slack, would you? He's only human, er, **_**looking**_**. ;)**

**Plus, we needed a little reprieve from all the misery, right? Did we get it? Hope so.**

**And did you know, NH actually thinks his English teeth are **_**ugly**_**? So does my husband (known him much, much longer I might add before you think I've got a fetish, okay) and what these guys don't understand is that those crooked teeth are fantastic!**

**Okkayyy, where was I? Oh, yeah . . .**

**Thanks to lupoea2 and Guard of the Heradi for adding your support to this story.**

**And then there's the ever loyal reviewers theFGnat, Kh530, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, angeleye02, brigid1318, Shelllee24, and Live4dancing. I appreciate you all so very much.**

**Alright, brigid1318, no more creeping, yeah? You're not Radiohead, sweetie! Step into the light! Besides, I'm totally going to harass you until you do! *winks evilly.* And yes, you're absolutely right. His eyes **_**do**_** convey so very, very much.**

**Ah, crud. Now I gotta stay up all night watching First Class, Days of Future Past, and Warm Bodies. Hang on, I'll be right back.**


	5. Hope and Resignation

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 5: Hope and Resignation

* * *

"I can _what_?"

Charles's face was strained and tense. He appeared to be fighting to maintain his calm demeanor in the face of Hank's sudden revelation.

"I've developed a specialized serum for you. If my calculations are right, it will dampen your psychic abilities substantially. And you will be able to walk."

Charles couldn't seem to get his head wrapped around the idea that not only he could have some peace from his psychic misery but that he once more could be freely mobile.

"But . . . you said you needed my blood to check for underlying complications from the bullet wound," he stammered.

Hank nodded his head, his eyes shifting around the room uncomfortably.

"Yeah, I kind of lied. I didn't want to get your hopes up before I determined if I could even help you. Um, sorry."

Charles' emotions reflected themselves in the bewilderment on his surprised face.

"Are you . . . _permanent_?"

Hank shook his head with regret.

"Well, no. And neither would you be. But we will have _some_ time in our new forms. And I can adjust the doses for maximum effect once we get used to them. Sort of like diabetes injections."

Hank waited. Checked his fingers. Still human. He waited.

"Are there any . . . side effects?" Charles questioned.

Hank shrugged.

"Not that I can discern so far. But I can run a few more tests," Hank offered.

Charles shook his head slightly and speaking suddenly as if in fear that the offered miracle would be withdrawn from his desperate grasp.

"No, no. I . . . want to try it. I . . . want peace. And I want to walk."

"Okay," Hank said, approaching slowly, fluid-filled syringe in hand.

A previous encounter flashed through his mind. A dim room lit by soft, crackling firelight. A beautiful girl in a white robe. Rejection. Heartbreak. Tears.

He pushed the memory away and refocused on the task at hand.

"It may take a few minutes," he warned his friend. "And it may hurt. I'm sorry."

* * *

It did take several minutes. Tension-filled, agonizing minutes.

Charles' aching spirit, masked by a stoic outer appearance, seemed to wilt with each passing unit of time.

Hank ran through each step of the process in his head. Rapidly recalculating solutions and equations, compositions and cellular structures. Reaching the end, he started over, slowly, methodically reevaluating the entire theory and process again. Step by step.

_No, no, I did everything right. It's going to work. It just needs time._

Suddenly, Charles jerked a fist up and punched himself in the right leg. Hank jerked, a low, bestial growl readying itself in his human throat.

But Charles looked up and grinned.

"I felt that!"

He hissed between his teeth, looking slightly abashed.

"Really _hurt_."

Hank smiled absently, concentrating on Charles' pajama-and-robe-clad legs. His heart was beating wildly. Mind racing.

Charles gripped the arms of his wheelchair tightly, his face twisting with pain.

"Ooooh, it's like . . . pins and needles . . . only worse," he ground out.

Hank opened his mouth to speak, started to move forward. Charles shook his head, waving him back. The moments crept on, drawing themselves out cruelly like a long, thin, teasing blades.

Finally, Charles moved his feet slowly, pushed himself up with his arms and stood up from his hated wheelchair. He lifted first one foot, then the other and moved forward toward Hank.

His gait was slow, but steady and gaining confidence. His face, still pulled into a frown, his eyes locked onto Hank's. And Hank watched him approach, never feeling closer to exhilaration, to a _heart attack_ than since he had seen himself in the bathroom mirror.

Charles reached him and grasped him by the forearms. Unused to human contact, Hank nevertheless mirrored the gesture on Charles' own arms.

They looked at each other.

Charles Xavier had not walked in over a year.

And now, standing tall and proud, he began to laugh. It started deep in his chest, from his very soul, and spread throughout his entire body. His harshly kept countenance broke into crinkling, laughing eyes and an open mouth from which gales of laughter emitted.

Hank laughed along with him.

And for the moment, possibility and hope, raised up out of the dusky gloom.

And they were okay again.

* * *

They walked out among the humans, out in the world. And it was grand.

The people, the noises, the crowds, the lights, the sounds.

No one recognized them, no one knew them. No one knew they were a pair of mutants. That Charles was a wheelchair-bound psychic and that he, Hank McCoy, was actually a blue, furry, orange-eyed beast.

They were just a couple of guys out about town. Enjoying a fine, sunny afternoon.

Hank got his hair cut and bought some new clothes. The whole thing made him very uncomfortable and edgy. But catching glimpses of his human appearance in reflective surfaces calmed him, filling him with a sense of wonder and tentative hope.

They ate a late lunch at an outside table. Cokes and burgers. Celebratory food. Chatted. Basked in the sun warm on their skin and felt the breezes that carried with it even more sensory stimulation.

Hank knew all the time that he was unconsciously casting his eyes here and there, looking for her. Not that she would be around. She was long gone. With Erik. And even if she were in the milling crowds, she would be cloaked. Made to look like someone else. When all he ever desired was for her to look like her. Normal her.

He couldn't help it. He looked for her anyway, letting the action float in the back of his mind while he enjoyed the sights and sounds before him.

They never spoke of her. Or them, the ones long gone.

They reminisced over simpler subjects. Childhood memories. Teenage dreams.

He was so caught up in his own personal victory over the beast that he barely noticed Charles' growing disquiet and agitation. That he did catch he simply ignored (just for once) so he could enjoy his new outing in creature free mode.

They passed a movie theater advertising something called 'Dr. Strangelove' or 'How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb'.

_Are they serious? Are they insane?_

A few girls glanced Hank's way, smiles playing in their eyes. He didn't really know how to react or even if he should. So he simply looked away, his face coloring, a slight smile curving at his human mouth and redirected his attention toward things he could handle.

Suddenly, a series of loud cracking sounds exploded in the air around them. Both men jerked and looked around, suddenly wary.

Magneto? Soldiers? Uprising mutants?

Hank heard himself growl, low and threatening. Bestial.

And then his mind cleared a little and he saw it.

Fireworks. Just kids playing with fireworks.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. Looked to Charles. Whose face was also a picture of concealed stress. Charles looked at him and something passed through his eyes. Maintaining his calm demeanor, the shorter man tilted his head in silent request and they turned back in the direction they'd come.

"We should go," he said quietly.

"Why?" Hank asked, trying not to sound like a petulant child.

Charles sighed with resignation.

"Because my legs are weakening. And your eyes are orange."

* * *

**Any of you more well-versed in science and biology than me feel free to call me out on my mistakes. I did the best I could here with some light research. And hey, it's fantasy so I figure I can get away with it. ;)**

**It's really all about the heart and soul and emotion anyway, isn't it?**

**Which, by the way, look for more of that in the next chapter. **

**Thanks to lol, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, theFGnat, and brigid1318 for continuing to review. Sweeties, that's what you are. Just such sweeties.**

**Thanks to Ssg1, Try Crying, and Starlit007day for adding your support to this fic.**


	6. Time and Space

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 6: Time and Space

* * *

As it turned out, there _were_ several side effects to Charles' psychic-damping, ambulation-inducing serum.

Guilt.

Shame.

The knowledge that he was shunning his gift, shutting himself down to those who cried out for help. Simply because it was too difficult for him, too painful. And that he had traded away all that infinite power just to walk on his own two legs.

And those heavy psychological side effects took a more dreadful toll on the good, upstanding man who was Charles Xavier than any physical side effects that he and Hank could have imagined.

He began to withdraw again. Worse this time.

He drank copiously. He brooded alone in dim rooms, shut away from everything around him. He insisted on overamounts of his serum. He cried when he thought no one could see.

And no one did. Except Hank.

It was then that dread began to creep into his heart and mind. Was Charles truly better off now? Ambulatory and quiet inside his own head yet being slowly eaten alive by guilt? Would it have been better to let him learn to cope with the cries, the screams, the pleas?

The chair?

* * *

How do you mark the passage of time in a timeless void? In a space where nothing changes, nothing moves, nothing breathes?

Do you watch the clocks? Those sneaky clocks whose hands move so slowly. Slower still when they catch you watching them. Seemingly to stop, to hold their breathing hands still just because you want them to move so badly.

Do you use the sun? The placement and strength of the light creeping through heavily drawn curtains that shut out the world. That sun that betrays you at the end of each day, drawing away from you, abandoning you to the creeping cold shadows of the lonely night.

Do you use your hobbies, your interests to pass the slow minutes, the hours, the days? Those things that once gave you joy and peace. Reading, studying, writing, experimenting. Those things that slowly become worn so thin and dry by overuse, by empty musings. Those things that once held such bright enticement and pleasure, now becoming grey and lifeless alongside everything else.

Xavier Manor had quite the extensive library, full of dusty tomes and forgotten words. It seemed vast and eternal. Until that's all there ever was. Then it became small, suffocating. Cloying.

Or perhaps do you use sound to push back against the encroaching silence? Music, television, your own echoing voice to accompany you when the silence grows too thick, too heavy for you to bear any longer, trapping you in a mire of isolation and hopelessness.

Daily routines perhaps? Waking, sleeping, eating, cleansing, all become rituals at which you cling. A strict schedule of your life to fill all the little spaces of time between periods of blessed unconsciousness.

Hank McCoy used all these methods and so many more to fill the yawning void that threatened to consume him in the quiet, still hours of his existence in that large, empty, desolate place. Living with and near yet so far away from the man who faded further and further away day after endless day.

He tried to maintain his equilibrium, his sanity, his purpose.

And it wasn't always easy.

Things requiring true self-sacrifice usually aren't.

* * *

Sometimes he ran.

As a man.

For exercise, for fresh air, a change of scene.

When the serum gave out and he returned to his furry, blue form, he sometimes ran as the beast.

Running free on his thick-soled prehensile feet. Away from the suffocating confines of his existence. Away from haunting memories of a crying young woman, of the void that stretched between them. Running away from his many regrets, his good-intentioned mistakes, his broken sorrows, his continuing frustrations. Running away from his monstrous self. That self which always seemed to catch up with him.

Running as fast as his beast feet and body would carry him. Through empty, ragged fields. Through dense forests, dodging massive trees. Leaping, swinging, flipping through branches, wild and feral. Crashing through underbrush, small woodland creatures fleeing before him in confusion and fear.

Pushing himself harder and harder until his heart pounded painfully, his muscles screamed, and spots danced behind his orange eyes. Until he collapsed from exhaustion and lay panting on whatever surface he had finally crumpled.

And eventually he would always get up and drag himself back to yawning chasm of the manor.

And take his serum once more.

Hank McCoy was a highly intelligent man. A scientist, a logical person who believed in reason, caution, and science. He was internal and taciturn by nature and by an entire lifetime of dedicated practice.

But even a quiet man, human or mutant, needs on occasion, some sort of support and companionship.

And suffers without it.

* * *

'Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again . . .'

Hank had never been much of a music follower, though he was sure it had drifted over him from time to time.

'And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence . . .'

But he turned on the transistor radio that day to drive away the engulfing void of emptiness and despair. And this song with its floating resonations and mystical intonations seemed to draw out the depression and hopelessness within him. Showing it to him so that he could clearly see the depths of the dangerous cliff over which he was hovered every day. And then shoved it mercilessly back into his wilting soul even though it increased the ache, for there was no room to hold it all.

'In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone . . .'

The song forced him to face the mire in which Charles was drowning himself. That Hank could not stop yet could not walk away from. Of course, he could have overcome his own fear and just left Charles to fend for himself, but that's not what loyalty for Hank McCoy entailed. So he stayed.

'Fools," said I. "You do not know silence like a cancer grows . . .'

Overwhelmed with the squeezing sensation that had wrapped its clenching cold hands around him and was slowing crushing his entire sterum, Hank placed his trembling palms on the work surface before him. Closed his eyes. Breathed deeply, slowly, calmly. And concentrated, whispering for the beast within him to remain asleep.

'But my words, like silent raindrops fell and echoed in the wells of silence . . .'

And the undulating melodic waves reached out to him over and over again, stroking his soul with hurting, soothing fingers, cutting through the sounds of silence.

* * *

**Gotta love "The Sound of Silence' by Simon and Garfunkel. It's like, all mystical and stuff.**

**I use lots of music in my writing and to inspire my writing. Because my head is filled with music all the time. Even found a spot for "What Does the Fox Say?" 'cause thanks to my son, **_**that**_** one just wouldn't **_**leave**_**. **

**Plus, in this story, it kind of helps with the timeline a little. Each song is taken from the year it was released. I know 'cause I looked it up. Told you I was a happy nerd. ;)**

**If you think about it, Hank seems like a big wimp, moping in that house for years, keeping away from the world. And he sort of is. But on the other side of that coin, sometimes it takes a lot of stamina, strength, and perseverance to hold out against the loneliness and depression that can overwhelm you in a situation like that. **

**Trust me, I know.**

**Now right before you sob and hate me and my darkness, consider this: What if Hank running around in the woods is the Bigfoot people kept seeing during that time period? Think about it. Nicholas Hoult wandering around in the forest, just freaking people out. There ya go, got you laughing again. Smiling at least? ;)**

**Thanks to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, lol, LightningRivera, lupoea2, Live4dancing, Voodoo-Mutant-Child, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, brigid1318, and theFGnat for taking the time to review. **

**Thanks to Hearts345, Mikari Satsuke, BlackShadow23, MonstrousWalnut, Shelllee24, and Tornado Ali for adding your support to this growing story.**

**Thanks to all of you (reviewers and non) who are choosing to come on this journey with me. I'll be honest. I don't yet know how long it will last but at least we know where we end up, right? **

**Yep, with Wolverine (hello, sweetie) standing on our doorstep, punching us right in the face! :)**


	7. Anger and Remembrance

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 7: Anger and Remembrance

* * *

Angry. He'd been so angry.

Angry with him. Erik. For letting his anger, his vengeful nature get the better of him. Not for killing Shaw. That Hank could understand, having felt the beast awakening within him. No. Erik, curving the agent's bullet away from himself. That bullet that had pierced Charles' spinal cord, forever crippling him. Erik, for blaming others for Charles' condition. Erik, for leaving when they needed him so badly. His friend, his mutant brother. Another part of the team. Eric, who had even cried with Charles bleeding in his arms. But then he had let that man go. Abandoned Charles, abandoned them all. Erik, inviting her to go, to accompany him. To abandon them and join him. Because he wanted her, needed her more than the others. Or so Erik thought.

Angry with him. Charles. For always believing in the indomitable good of others even when they themselves did not exhibit it. For foolishly believing that sense and reason would trump hatred and fear. For not acting, for not choosing to control those who needed it. If only long enough to stop the storm. Charles, who'd let her go. Reading her mind when he, Hank, could not. And telling her she could go. She who never would have found the strength to ask, to go on her own. She who might have stayed, if Charles had only asked. But he hadn't.

Angry with her. For leaving when she was most needed. As Charles lay shot and perhaps dying upon the sands, she had left. Left the man who was like a brother to her. The man who had given her a home when she had none, himself for a family when she had none. And then she, in his darkest hour, had simply left Charles because she disagreed with him. Speaking empty, hollow words of encouragement to him, Hank. When they didn't need words just then. When what they really needed was each other. All of them. Together. A team. A unit.

She had been one of the strongest hearts of their band. Her and Charles. And now she was gone, taking part of that heart with her. Even if she didn't care for him, didn't want him. She should have stayed. For all of them. The good she could have done for them, her fellow mutants. The good she could have done with the children. She, the one who encouraged, the one who argued so passionately, the one who called everybody out, and never gave an inch of slack to anybody. She, whose laughter and smile vanquished the loneliness, the hopelessness. She, the one who cared the most deeply.

Or so he thought.

And though he had been so angry and was angry still, he cared for her even now. Worried about her. Hoped for her safety. Dreamed of her return.

And he didn't know if he would ever stop.

Angry again with the Charles of now. For hiding out, giving up. Becoming the serum junkie he was who only cared about himself and his own pain.

Hank, gentle Hank, was so angry. So very, very angry.

When he was angry and hurt as a child and a teenager, helplessly infuriated and insulted by those bullies that made fun of his glasses, of his gangly, pale appearance. Made fun of him for being so smart. Only because they weren't. When he was hurt then, as he was so very often, he would clench his fists, glare at the floor, at his shoes, at anything but them. Remain silent. And get away or wait it out until he could.

Helpless fury.

But harmless to everyone but himself.

Now when he was angry and hurt the beast awakened, growling, clawing its way out of him from within. Tossing the power of the serum aside for the bestial power surging through his veins, rippling his muscles, revealing itself in blue fur, blue skin, and menacing orange eyes. Bestial growls and pointed, dangerous teeth.

Though he could control himself in that form, he hated to don it at all.

Because it felt _so good_.

To cut loose, to embrace that power and unleash it as he chose.

Back when he had first changed into his blue form and thought it inescapable. When he had faced them in shame of his appearance and his desperate foolishness. And Erik had spoken. Mocking him, or so he thought.

"Never looked better, man."

The heady release of power and control in seizing the man's neck, squeezing it, watching his face turn red, watching him gasp for life. Knowing he could crush it out of him if he chose. Growling his threat, his promise, his power.

"Don't . . . mock me."

_I'm not scared anymore. I can destroy you. You had better watch out for me now._

It had felt _so good_.

Growling his threat again at Alex, Havoc. He who reminded him so much of every bully who had made fun of him, caused him misery growing up. He who thought he was so powerful with his red power rings. Wouldn't even have been able to control it if not for Charles' instruction and his, _Hank's_, invention. Would've lived in fear, keeping it trapped inside himself. If not for Charles. If not for Hank.

_Watch your step, man. I can rip you apart now._

He would not be bullied anymore. He would not be shamed. He was powerful now.

It had felt _so good_.

Flying the plane he had designed, knowing none of them could have made it this far without him. Being accepted, being part of a team. Fighting alongside his fellow mutants.

Fighting the red skinned beast who threatened his friends. Clamping claws to flesh, punching, hitting, slashing. Roaring.

Finally with a brutal hit to the heart, he'd defeated his enemy in his first physical combat.

And it had felt _great_.

The strength, the freedom, the power.

And because it had felt so good, he feared it. More intoxicating than anything else could ever be (except for perhaps her), he knew he could become addicted to it. To the power, to the control. And he could use that against people weaker than him. He could become what he hated.

He could indeed become a beast.

And so Hank McCoy chose to practice self-control. Practice serenity. Practice peace.

Because he wanted to live as a man, not a monster.

* * *

When the bad times threatened to consume him, when all the world seemed to draw back and abandon him to the isolation and darkness, he remembered.

Hank remembered back in early 1963 when Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters was still open. Back when people still spoke to each other, when they still looked at each other. When he thought they might be doing some sort of good, helping those children who needed guidance, safe haven.

Back when Charles, though resigned to living life from a wheelchair, still had hope. Still had faith. Still tried to reach out to others.

He had been okay for a while. They all, even through their grief and loss, had been okay.

And then everything had changed again. Kennedy was killed and the whole world became more afraid, more angry. Erik was arrested and blamed for his death. And he and Charles had watched in horror along with the others.

Looking at each other, silent exchanges passing between the two of them.

_Did he?_

_No, surely not. Surely it wasn't Erik. Why would he?_

_But could it be?_

_I don't know._

_And what about her?_

_I don't know._

A terrible tragedy for humans and mutants alike. Kennedy, such a staunch proponent for racial equality. He was a beacon of hope in gaining a foothold for mutant rights as well.

And because of that terrible crime, the parents of their mutant pupils began to fear for their children. They took them away and that was when everyone scattered on the winds for fear of discovery, of scorn, of abuse.

And that was when everything had begun to spiral downward.

And Hank, genius scientist and powerful mutant, could not devise a way to stop it.

By the middle of 1964, they were all gone.

Only he and Charles remained.

And since Charles withdrew little by little, Hank was left to remember all by himself.

* * *

**A little empowerment for our guy Hank. Because he does change, he does have more confidence by the time we get to him in DoFP.**

**The movie which I saw again by the way. What? The boys wanted to see it. I was just the chauffeur. *winks**

**He's more grown-up and mature. *she whispers 'and more attractive'**

**Ahem, moving right along . . .**

**Thanks to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, lupoea2, Shanynde, and brigid1318 for hanging around to talk.**

**Thanks as well to cavco and Bubbles975 for adding your support to this story.**


	8. Comfort and Conflict

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 8: Comfort and Conflict

* * *

If anyone were to ask Hank McCoy during 1965 what his favorite song was (not that isolated, mutant scientists had conversations about such things), he would have blatantly, shamelessly, lied to that person's face. He would have responded with something easy like '(I Can't Get) No Satisfaction' by The Rolling Stones or 'Mr. Tambourine Man' by The Byrds. Something simple, something easy like that.

But the song that truly stuck in his mind, the one that really pushed all his hidden, secret buttons was "Unchained Melody" by The Righteous Brothers.

'Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea, to the open arms of the sea . . .'

He would frequently go to sleep with that song echoing in his head and dream of her all night long.

'I've hungered for your touch a long, lonely time and time goes by so slowly . . .'

Rolling, passionate, feverish dreams he would never, could never, tell anyone. Not anyone. Not ever.

'I need your love . . . I need your love . . .'

But it was good that he had some comfort and release in those quiet, secluded hours of the night. Because the daylight hours were growing more difficult to face.

* * *

Charles had been taking too much serum, mixing it with copious amounts of alcohol. Hank was worried Charles would overload his system and die alone and lost in the confines of his isolation.

He didn't want his friend to die.

And he didn't want to be left alone.

He had been trying to scale back Charles' serum dose. The attempt wasn't going well.

"Hank, it's not _enough_!"

Charles stood in Hank's lab, having found him there in the middle of the day working happily for once on some project or another. Just for a little while being able to ignore his discontent and loneliness and simply focus. Simply work on something without his past, her face, haunting him.

He had been feeling content, maybe even touching on a light of happiness for the first time in a long while.

But now . . .

Charles' scruffy face was screwed up in a rictus of agony. He appeared to be straining not to beg. His hands clenched and unclenched like hungry, needful things.

Hank took a deep, stabilizing breath. They'd been through this before.

"Charles, the dose I'm giving you is sufficient to both allow you to walk and keep the voices to a manageable level."

Charles glared at him and spoke, spitting his words out vehemently, his searing need overriding his usually gentile mannerisms.

"I don't want a 'manageable level', Hank! I need them _gone_!"

It hurt Hank to see the pain on his friend's face. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, like he hadn't slept in days. And he probably hadn't.

"Hank, _please_, I need more."

Hank sighed.

"Charles, if you have any more, we won't be able to search for other mutants at all. We won't be able to try to find those that need our help."

Hank tried to make him see reason. Tried to appeal to his better nature. To his sense of responsibility. It didn't go quite as well as he had hoped.

Charles' sick, needful anger intensified. His refined voice nearing a shout.

"I don't _want_ to search for other mutants! I don't _want_ to hear their pain! I don't _want_ all that in my head any longer! I . . . Want . . . It . . . _Gone_!"

_Growl. _

_Not now, Beast._

It hurt him to know that Charles' growing dependence on the serum was causing him to degenerate, to become so much less than what he had once been.

And that he, Hank, had first introduced him to it.

He should not have developed the serum. He knew that now. He should have said nothing. He should have let him suffer through it, provided a silent support for him so that Charles could come out stronger on the other side.

But he hadn't done that.

He had done what he thought was right, helping his friend. Comforting that friend, providing Charles with an escape from the screaming voices in his head. And a chance to walk again.

And now they were here.

Hank forced himself to look Charles in the eye. That man who, upon their first meeting, had immediately accepted him for what he truly was.

And Hank spoke words that fell like slabs of concrete into his own miserable heart and brain.

"Okay, Charles. I'll get you more serum."

* * *

He walked along the sidewalk with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his eyes staring down at the concrete stretching out before him. Tall, lanky, with his shadow trailing behind him, he looked at no one. He spoke to no one. He walked alone.

On his way from whatever pointless destination and to whatever pointless destination he was heading, he veered into a small diner. Keeping his head ducked, he sat down in an empty booth and folded his hands together on the tabletop. The linoleum felt smooth and cool to his flesh.

A yellow and white uniformed waitress approached, notepad and pencil in hand.

"Good afternoon," she said cordially. "May I help you?"

He stared at his hands.

"Cup of coffee, please," he requested.

If he had looked up, he would have noticed her. His age. Wavy brown hair. Warm brown eyes. Pleasant figure.

"Cream or sugar?"

If he had looked up, he would have read her nametag. 'Hope'.

"No, thank you."

If he had looked up, he would have seen her shyly admiring his unique features, what she could see of them, under his bent brow.

"Coming right up."

She moved away as he continued contemplating his hands. Lost in thought, lost within himself.

"Here's your coffee, sir."

She set the warm cup down onto a freshly inked napkin she had nervously brought with her.

"Thank you."

His voice was quiet, almost nonexistent.

"I like your glasses. They look . . . intelligent," she offered sincerely.

If he had looked up, he would have seen the gentleness in her eyes.

She left him to his black coffee and blacker musings. He sat alone and sipped his hot beverage. It was good.

Dark.

And bitter.

After several minutes, the waitress returned.

"Would you like to order anything else?"

Staring deep into the depths of his coffee, he shook his head. Reluctantly, the waitress quoted the price. Without looking up, he slid the exact change plus tip over to her.

"Are you from around here?"

He did not respond. She waited a few seconds.

If he had looked up, he would have seen her head unconsciously tilted slightly to the side, as if she were trying to figure him out.

"Well, then, have a good day, sir. Come back some time."

She hesitated for one more moment. Then when he did not respond or look at her, she moved off to her other tables.

When he'd drunk his last, he finally noticed the napkin. A name, a local phone number, a smile. He stared fixedly at it for a several long seconds. The waitress, attempting not to notice, continued her rounds. She managed to catch a slippery plate by activating her mutant sticky fingers seconds before the dishware dashed to the floor.

If Hank had taken the time to ask her, she might have revealed the truth. That unlike some of the other bolder waitresses she worked with, she had never before dared to offer up her contact information to anyone.

From somewhere within the diner, musical machinations, vaguely familiar, floated over him.

'I have no need of friendship. Friendship causes pain. It's laughter and it's loving I disdain . . .'

He stood, put the folded napkin in his jacket pocket, and left the diner. The young lady watched him go, wondering why such a handsome, kind-looking guy seemed so glum. If only he would talk to her. Maybe she could help. Maybe he needed a friend.

'I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died. If I never loved, I never would have cried . . .'

Hank McCoy discreetly deposited the sweetly inked napkin into a trash bin several stores away.

'And a rock feels no pain; And an island never cries . . .'

* * *

**You know, truthfully, I keep wondering at what point you will all say, 'Honey, you've gone too far. This is completely off the edge of Hank'. **

**Particularly with the musical aspect I'm developing. But that was some of the music of the time period and I picture Hank's using it to stay connected and ground himself in his sanity any way he can. **

**Of course, "I am a Rock" by Simon and Garfunkel is always good for throwing a bit of stubborn flash into any misery.**

**That being said, I hope the "Unchained Melody" thing didn't get too hokey what with "Ghost" and all (thank you, Patrick Swayze & Demi Moore, for making me _completely_ unable to take pottery classes) but I have personally seen a grown, intelligent man react emotionally to this song. A man that felt all alone and missing a special woman too.**

**Besides, I don't write smut. Never have, never will. So if you're waiting for some Hank/Raven smuttiness, better go read something else then, yeah? **

**Good. Now that we've got _that_ little rant out of the way . . .**

**A grateful shout-out to iamgoku for letting me pick your brains. I promise I washed my hands before and afterward. Thanks, dude. ;)**

**Thanks to lol, lupoea2, Shanynde, iamgoku, brigid1318, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, Voodoo-Mutant-Child, and theFGnat for continuing to review. You're just so generous and kind. :)**

**Thanks also to lrjuni92 and Brianca for adding your support to this story.**


	9. Equanimity and Beatles

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 9: Equanimity and Beatles

* * *

Hank McCoy was an unassuming young mutant. First, he had been a highly intelligent scientist. For a short while, he had been part of a unique fighting force. He had even briefly served as an occasional mentor to younger mutants needing acceptance, guidance.

Now he wasn't so sure what he was.

A caretaker, looking after a large, empty house? A nursemaid to one who had made himself truly sick and lost? A drug supplier to a self-pitying, self-destructive individual ruthlessly bent on squandering his amazing gifts? A loyal friend to a man who chose to hide himself away from the world in the desperate hopes that the world would go away and leave him be?

Hank McCoy wasn't sure what he was anymore.

But he refused to give up. He refused to give in.

* * *

"Smells strange in here," he casually remarked, entering the musty, darkened room. He moved to a nearby window, pushing back the curtains to reveal the sunlit day that Charles so staunchly hid away from.

Charles reposed on a plush, blue sofa. He seemed barely conscious.

"Have you been smoking that stuff again?" Hank inquired, trying not to sound judgmental.

The raggedy man on the couch laughed, a humorless sound in the dusty room.

"No, Hank. I don't think that would wise, do you? No, no. Don't think I'll be making that mistake again, my friend."

Hank was relieved. He had rarely been so afraid as that long night when Charles, full of drug-induced paranoia and a head full of crying voices had barricaded himself in his study with a loaded gun. Hank, morphed into the blue-furred, orange-eyed beast full of power and intense anxiety, had feared for the life of his friend.

Begging, pleading, coercing him to open the door and let him in. To put down the firearm and let him in.

Just let him in.

Finally, right before he had attacked the door and ripped it to shreds, Charles had unlocked it. Hank had rushed in and found his friend on the floor, looking for all the world like a burnt out, homeless vagrant.

After that, he'd sworn to Charles that he would supply him with serum so long so he avoided that particular form of escapism in the future.

Charles had promised.

He didn't always keep his promises.

This one he did.

So far.

"No, I think I'll just trust your special little serum to do its lovely little job."

Hank looked at his friend. Charles sprawled on the soft cushions, dressed in lounge pants, a stained white shirt, and some sort of robe. Unkempt hair wild and facial hair growing ever more scruffy. Loosely clasped in one hand was a bottle of liquor. It looked to be nearly empty.

Charles Xavier barely resembled the man who had once so proudly accepted Hank as "one of us".

Hank moved around the cluttered, messy room, gathering liquor bottles, restacking fallen books. Busying himself so that he could observe Charles' condition without being too obvious.

Psychedelic music drifted to him from somewhere in the vast room. Odd, twangy. But through the disjointed chords, a few words did drift into his wandering brain.

'Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she's gone . . .'

Of course, it would remind him of her. Almost everything did, given the right flash.

"She left us."

Hank didn't have to ask to whom Charles was referring.

He knew.

"She's gone. And I don't think she's coming back."

Hank remained silent. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"He curved the bullet into my back. And then he took her away."

Hank could hear the emotion building behind Charles' voice. He forced himself to stay calm, wondering how this particular encounter was going to play out.

"He took away the things that meant the most to me."

Charles' voice was calm yet a seething anger swam under his stoic outer demeanor.

'Climb in the back with your head in the clouds and you're gone . . .'

After a moment, Charles continued on his shambling course.

"Well, except for you, Hank. He left _you_," Charles surmised sarcastically. "And _you_, my friend, are just an absolute _joy_, that I can tell you."

_Growl._

_Go back to sleep, Beast. I don't need you._

Hank chose not to respond to the venom that dripped from Charles' alcohol fueled, pain-induced ramblings. Later, if he even remembered this little encounter, Charles would probably apologize. And Hank would stoically sweep that away too.

'Lucy in the sky with diamonds . . . Lucy in the sky with diamonds . . .'

Charles averted his hazy eyes and took another swig from the nearly empty bottle in his hand.

"I have to go out for some supplies. I'll be gone a few hours."

Hank left the room. Charles Xavier remained.

* * *

Equanimity is defined as a calm temperament or an evenness of temper under stress.

Hank injected himself with just enough of his serum to stay balanced. To stay human-looking. He had perfected the dosage so that he could release the beast, so to speak, and reel him back in as he chose.

As long as he stayed calm and collected, he could live day to day without incident. He went weeks out growling, turning blue, or presenting with furry monkey feet.

Which was really saying something considering Charles' continuing downward spiral of self-pity, self-indulgence, and self-destruction.

Hank's control wasn't exactly perfect though.

'There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be . . .'

Music didn't usually set Hank off. Usually it soothed him, annoyed him, or just plain baffled him.

'It's easy . . .'

This tune was different. The shallow, flippant words inspired an instant surge of rage and angst against the unending flatline and hopelessness of his existence.

'All you need is love, love. Love is all you need . . .'

Without his permission, one blue, furry paw shot out of the end of his pale, human arm, snatched up the radio and flung it with a furious roar to smash against the far wall of his laboratory. He stood, a blue, furry beast with orange eyes, seething with pent-up rage and pain.

After a long struggle to regain control, he finally took his serum (as he was too keyed up to melt the beast away on his own) and disposed of the broken electronic pieces. After that he went out and bought another transistor radio.

The next time he heard the song, he simply reached over and turned the knob until it clicked off.

* * *

**Hey, check out my Hank poll on my profile to vote for a plot addition. I've never done one before so bear with me until I figure it out, yeah? ;)**

**Poor Beatles. They really got slammed in this chapter, didn't they? "All You Need is Love" is good but sometimes can just be a slap in the face for those who need it. Or need something more.**

**As for 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds', I still prefer the 'Across the Universe' version. Sooo, I guess I'm not really a purist, then. Oh, well. Shoot me.**

**Did you get the feeling in DoFP that when Hank is talking to Wolverine about Charles' substance usage that he's downplaying the severity of it? Like there's so much more he's not telling? As he's moving around picking up liquor bottles and stuff? **

**That being said, I have personally been a witness to this sort of behavior and I absolutely do not encourage the enabling of it. _At All._ It made me so sad and so sick watching it in the movie. But since it is part of the already set storyline, I must address it. Plus, we all know they come out of it okay and so that helps a little. (Spoilers? Seriously? Oh, for goodness sake, just go see the movie, would you?)**

******So that's coming into play here now. Depressing and dark, I know. But doesn't that make Charles' climb out of his own personal purgatory so much more of a victory?**

**Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to dry my tears and find something funny on YouTube to watch, okay? A few 'Everything Wrong With' should help.**

**Thanks to lol, Shanynde, brigid1318, theFGnat, and Voodoo-Mutant-Child for continuing to review. **


	10. Looking and Seeing

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 10:Looking and Seeing

* * *

"Good afternoon. May I . . ."

He almost smiled when her mildly surprised voiced trailed off. Her oval face colored slightly high up on her cheekbones, but she seemed to hold her poise out of stubborn pride.

"Hi," he said.

She smiled just a little, the expression moving slowly into her eyes.

"Hi."

He had been moping around the big, empty spaces of the manor, unable to concentrate on a single thing but his unending misery. Charles was once more locked away and Hank didn't care to try to draw him out. Then the simplest thought had arrived in his head like a huge white banner with black block lettering on it.

_I can't go on like this much longer. _

Tentatively, without really knowing what he expected to happen, he had left for town. And after much aimless wandering, with hesitation and uncertainty, Hank went back to the little diner.

And now here he was, finally attempting to look up.

The waitress cleared her throat, fiddled nervously with her hair and glanced around.

"Would you like coffee again today?"

He shook his head.

"No, I don't like coffee."

She quirked an eyebrow quizzically at him, perplexed.

"Then why did you order it before?"

He looked down at his hands. And looked back up. Shrugged.

"It seemed to fit at the time."

She smiled and chuckled.

"Okay. I get that. So what fits today?"

He thought a minute.

"Coke, please."

She smiled again.

"Coming right up."

He watched her make her way around the diner, smiling and speaking to customers. She seemed to have a friendly but not overtly flirtatious demeanor with them. She seemed to put them at ease and they smiled in her wake.

He didn't really know what he was going to say or do when she came back. Maybe nothing.

"Here you go," she said lightly, sitting down the glass full of icy, bubbling carbonation.

"I'm Hank," he said simply.

"I'm Hope."

_Really? Even a mutant scientist like me can see a sign in a name like that. I think._

"It's nice to meet you," he said.

And smiled.

* * *

Hank couldn't find Charles. At first he wasn't too concerned. The once gregarious man turned recluse wasn't exactly throwing house warming parties nowadays.

After a while, though, Hank began to worry.

Eventually he found him in a dark, abandoned room standing statue-still, staring fixedly at something hidden away in a dark corner.

The chair.

Smooth grey leather, shiny metal footrests. Accessible hand controls to for smooth maneuverability. Quiet power system. Top of the line equipment.

And he knew how much Charles hated it.

This wasn't the first time he'd found Charles staring at it. Like a man looking into the face of death.

"Charles, are you okay?"

Charles looked as though he felt the apparatus were judging him. Weighing him, judging him. Finding him wanting.

"No, Hank. I am not."

His voice, lately so full of bitter anger now sounded hollow and empty. As though there were nothing left in him. Hank waited patiently. Eventually, Charles continued.

"It knows what I have done. Thrown away my powers. Tossed aside those mutants that needed me just because it hurt too much. It knows."

Was Charles hallucinating? Becoming paranoid? Had he taken something?

"I've thrown everything away just because things didn't go my way. People have needed me and I've let them down."

Hank didn't know what to say, what to think. Everything Charles said was true.

"And it sees me. It knows."

Hank looked at him carefully, studying him. Clarity, sudden clarity, could be sign of hope or a portent for disaster.

"Are you saying . . ." Hank began.

"Of course, that's just all in my head, isn't it?" Charles interrupted lightly, gesturing one hand out at it. "It's just a machine, steel and leather. Come on, Hank. No more silliness for now. Time for another drink."

* * *

"I'm sorry I was rude before. I was . . ."

_Miserable. Depressed. Catatonically unhappy. No, don't say that._

". . . distracted," he finally concluded.

"Yeah, you seemed troubled," she replied. "How are you now?"

They were walking down the street side by side. The sun was bright and warming. People strolled easily in the fresh air. He wondered what would happen if Raven could see him now. Would he feel guilty?

_Why should I feel guilty? _She_ abandoned _us_. It's been almost five years._

_But you still care about her._

_Well, maybe I shouldn't. _

_What is should? You do._

_Oh, shut up._

The breeze carried with it a subtle scent of flowers. It came from her wavy, brown hair. It smelled nice.

He shrugged.

"Talking."

She smiled and nodded.

"Well, that's good. Everybody needs someone to talk to sometimes or they freak out."

Her skin was not blue. Her wavy hair not blond or red. He almost wished that it was. Then he decided he didn't.

"Yeah."

_Or turn furry and blue. Do you like teddy bears? Don't ask her that. Don't be stupid._

They walked on.

* * *

**Alright, people. This entire story was originally going to be a one-shot. And now we've finished chapter 10. **

**So have I betrayed you by letting Hank interact with another girl? Truthfully, I thought the guy (and I) might crack without some lighter reprieve. **

**So give me some feedback. I've never introduced an OC before. I'm feeling my way in the dark here. But please, be kind. I only want what's best for our guy Hank. And no, she's not a Mary Sue either. Though I had to look that definition one up. ;)**

**Well, thanks for reading then. *nervously gnaws fingernails, pencils, tree trunks, car tires**

**Oh, my loyal reviewers, lol, angeleye02,** **Voodoo-Mutant-Child, lupoea2, Jinx of the 2nd Law, brigid1318, and Shelllee24, you are so very kind to speak up. **

**And to the rest of you that remain silently reading – thanks for being out there too. I see you and you're very much appreciated.**


	11. Work and Play

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 11: Work and Play

* * *

Rumors abounded of more mutant disappearances, interrogations, experimentations. Mysterious, covert government goings-on. Suspicious for conspiracy theorists. Suspicious for humans. Suspicious for mutants.

A unique scientist carrying the unfortunate moniker of Bolivar Trask kept being attached to many of the underground rumors. By all accounts he was a very unique individual himself. Print news and the radio didn't really give enough information. Hank needed more.

He voraciously watched television news but it was difficult to catch all the information because he could only watch one channel at a time. Sometimes the visual and audio flashes were so quick he was sure he had missed something.

Hank possessed a highly intelligent and rapidly working mind. But he did not have an eidetic or photographic memory. He couldn't see and hear it all at once. One minute it was there and the next minute, it was gone. Never to be repeated again. A very frustratingly slow way to gather information. Even if not all of it could be trusted.

_If only there was some way to record it and play it back over and over again. Hmm . . ._

* * *

Hank chose a small unused room in the manor and got to work. He cleaned everything out of it until there were only tables and desks left, distributing the discarded furniture evenly in different rooms on the floor. He organized the remaining furniture to fit the maximum amount of equipment neatly and orderly.

The transistor radio churned out endless cycles of noise to keep him company.

'All across the nation such a strange vibration, people in motion . . .'

Much easier to move heavy furniture with superhuman strength. And he didn't even have to change his outward appearance to tap into the amount of strength that he needed either.

_Thanks, Beast. We should form a moving company. Blue Monkey Movers, Limited._

_Growl._

_Of course it was funny. Hope would think it was funny._

_Growl._

_Yes, she would._

_Growl._

_No, you can't come out to play._

_Growl._

_Don't be a baby._

Once he got the room cleaned out and organized, Hank started collecting. Some equipment he bought. Most he was able to salvage from around the mansion. Very handy thing, a huge, mostly abandoned mansion. A treasure troves of hoarded supplies. Well, neatly hoarded supplies, he had to admit.

Three televisions. Spools and reams of recording tape. Keyboards, a couple of fans to keep the heat down in the midst of all the energy output. Control boards, bundles of cables, cords, electronic wires, extra shelving to organize it all on. Headphones to catch every syllable, every nuance of the new bits that caught his attention. Plenty of light sources to illuminate the high-tech information center.

He worked for days. Splicing wires, bundling cables together. Labeling devices. Drawing and redrawing schematics for the entire network. Hooking it all into the power grid. Rechecking everything down to the last minute detail..

Sometimes he forgot to eat until his stomach grumbled and protested. Sometimes he forgot to sleep until his eyes blurred and his fingers grew clumsy.

Finally it was ready. Taking a deep breath, Hank tested it all out.

* * *

Television one, CBS.

_Jeopardy, hmm. Let's see. Oh, I know the answer to that. And that. And that. That one too. These are easy._

Television two, NBC.

_Star Trek. Fascinating. What is . . . oh, yeah. Those _are_ my eyebrows. They were right. Huh._

Television three, ABC.

_Bewitched. Oh that nose crinkle thing is unique. What is that guy so mad about? He should be grateful to have her. I mean, _look_ at him. He's looks like me and he's got _her_?_

* * *

Hank spent hours upon hours in that room, shut away. He didn't tell Charles about his technology station. He wasn't sure why.

Sitting in his office chair, leaning back, scanning all the TVs. He gathered intel, listened to radio broadcasts, watched Gilligan's Island (Mary Ann's appearance reminded him of Hope just a little), and listened to music.

'If you're goin' to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair . . .'

San Francisco. California. Hank had never been there. It was way on the other side of the continent. Could it be possible that Raven was there? Where was she? Who was she with now that Erik was captured and gone? What was she doing? There was so much civil unrest, odd cultural movements, people behaving strangely all over the place.

Was she safe? Was she okay?

Sometimes he scanned the televisions for her, knowing without a doubt he'd never see her. Knowing that if she were there, she'd be cloaked, hidden away as someone else. Knowing she was gone for good. Her shape-shifting ability ensured her anonymity.

Sometimes he looked anyway.

* * *

The day was warm. And sunny. And light.

"You're a scientist?"

Hank nodded, sipping his coke.

"Wow, that's _cool_. I knew you were really intelligent."

She grinned at him, her smile open and bright.

"I want to be a nurse. But I have to save money for college first."

_A nurse. Caring for people, healing them. I can see that._

Hope gazed at him. Her eyes were curious, as they usually were when he drifted away. She paused, one hand holding a shoe string French fry halfway to her mouth. Then offered it to him instead.

"Here's a fry. Tell me what's in your head."

He took the fry in his hand. They were sitting at an outdoor table on the sidewalk, burgers and fries on plates before them. Cokes at their elbows. Talking and not talking.

"Um, I was just thinking . . ."

From seemingly out of nowhere, a large gray bird abruptly dove in, catching the aloft fry and flying away with a squawk. They followed the path of its flight, their mouths hanging open. Finally, Hank managed to finish his thought, altered as it was.

". . . that, uh, we really need to draft that bird into the U.S. Air Force."

Her brown eyes were wide with shock. Her surprised expression caused him to smile.

"Hey, I didn't give that to _you_," she scolded the disappearing bird. "I gave it to _him_."

Then they laughed together. It felt good to laugh.

* * *

Working in the laboratory one morning. Feeling better than he had in a long time. Not really sure why.

Perspiration beaded on his forehead and some dripped to smudge his glasses, interrupting his concentration. He took them off and cleaning them, looked at a world with very fuzzy edges.

_I really should invent some sort of procedure to fix my eyes. Maybe figure out how to reshape the corneas like rounding mirrors. Use lasers or something._

Glasses clean once more, he continued his work.

Suddenly Charles Xavier burst through the door, yelling.

"Hank! _Hank_! **_HANK_**!"

"What?! What is it, Charles? Are you okay?"

Charles' eyes looked wild along with his shaggy hair and rumpled clothes.

Setting down his materials, Hank followed the agitated man at a run into the main entertainment room where the television was blaring.

A solemn-faced news reporter was speaking. Hank could hardly believe the words emitting from the talking box.

" . . . was shot today in Memphis, Tennessee. Dr. King, a strong leader in the civil rights movement, advocated peace in the face of . . ."

Charles and Hank stood in shocked silence together as the world once more fell to tattered, violent, smoking shreds at their feet.

* * *

'It's a beautiful mornin' . Ahhh, I think I'll go outside a while . . .'

It was. And it wasn't.

'When you're still inside, shouldn't hide, still inside shouldn't hide . . .'

That was exactly what Hank wanted to do. Hide. The world was a dangerous, wicked place where good men died because bad men didn't like them. Humans. Mutants. It didn't matter in the end. All good beings deserved to live in peace without fear of getting shot, didn't they?

'It's a beautiful mornin', ahhh . . .'

What was the point of trying to make it better if it was only going to get worse?

* * *

**Truthfully, I was really anxious about that last chapter. So I'm glad you guys were okay with the OC. I was freaked all day.**

**Okay, so now that I can _blink_ again . . .**

**So I figured Hank could use some levity with his beast side. Evolving a little so to speak. Just a little at a time. Beastie baby steps, right?**

**I'm not really a techie so if I just sinned bunches on the tech part, well, tell me and I'll fix it, yeah?**

**Oh and it case you think I forgot the "plus PBS" part, PBS first aired in 1970. So it's not there yet. Don't worry we'll pop it in there later.**

**Okay, I threw the Gilligan's Island thing in there for brigid1318 and anyone else who's been snorting laughter at Hank's wonky hat and fanny pack when they're breaking Erik out of the Pentagon.**

**And I took out Sanford and Son because a gentle reviewer told me it did not air until the '70s. Oops, my bad. That's sweetie!**

**"San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers In Your Hair)" by Scott McKenzie is the song here. Along with "Beautiful Morning" by the Rascals. Insane that song could have been playing on the same day MLKjr was murdered, huh?**

**Thanks to emiliarose357, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, theFGnat, angeleye02, natsuxlucyONLY, Kh530, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, BlackShadow23, lol, and brigid1318 for continuing to graciously review.**

**Thanks to HotMuffinCrumbs, Jasper6509, StoopidFox (well, what _does_ he say?), and BlackShadow23 for adding your support to this story.**


	12. Homecoming and Departure

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 12: Homecoming and Departure

* * *

He walked through the front door of the mansion and immediately sensed something.

_Growl._

_No. It can't be._

It was. A few steps further in and he saw her. The sight of her stopped him dead in his tracks. His hungry eyes immediately feasted on the exquisite sight of her.

Standing on the main staircase. Holding a small, grey, pull-string bag loosely in her left hand. The other hand behind her, out of sight. Glowingly outlined by the soft afternoon rays of sunlight drifting in through the plate glass windows behind her. Her, in her natural, unadorned form. Slick red hair. Styled shorter now than last he'd seen her. Blue scales curving around her body and face, accentuating her figure perfectly in all the right places. She had grown and matured since last he saw her.

She was beautiful. Even more beautiful than before if that was possible.

"Raven."

Relief and joy flooded through him in a tidal wave as he looked upon her. He didn't even care enough to be confused as to why she was here.

He only cared that she was here.

"That's not my name."

Her voice was low and dangerous, but swept up gratefully by his ears, so hungry for so long for the sound of her voice.

"Mystique," he amended.

Anything. He'd call her anything she asked. She was here. She was back. She was home.

"You're hiding who you are again."

He felt an instant flash of guilt mixed with irritation that she would judge him so quickly. But that was her. Always so absolute.

"I was out," he replied, trying to sound casual. "You do too sometimes. Otherwise I would have seen you by now."

She smiled then but it was a sad smile. And moved down the stairs toward him. He moved toward her as well, heart and mind full of swelling hope, a tentative smile upon his face.

Then she said something he did not expect. Something that killed his smile and shattered his heart.

"I'm sorry, Beast. They have my son," she said quietly. "They'll kill him if I don't complete my mission."

_Son? What? A child? Whose? Erik's? Not mine. I never even got to so much as kiss you, remember?_

At the last second, he saw the flash of the gun in her previously hidden hand.

Swinging up to point at him. Point blank. Right to the heart. How very fitting. The second shot to the heart in as many seconds.

He instinctively dove out of the way, ripping off his glasses, casting them away to slide under a leather chair in the corner. Rolling to his feet, crouching, with a feral growl and a burst of blue fur. The gunshot echoed loudly in the still room. The bullet missed him and tore itself into the dark wood-paneled wall.

He rose up and struck at her wrist with the back of his own. Knocking the gun away even as she swung at him with her other hand. Bag dropping heavily to the floor, something clanking within. Her striking him right across the face, the blow glancing off his nose, making his eyes water and burn.

"Mystique, stop!" he roared, deflecting the worst of another hit and shoving her back. "Don't do this!"

She went for the gun again and he flung her away from it to the floor with another frustrated roar.

She landed flat on her back on the Persian rug, the wind knocked out of her. And instantly, he was upon her. Literally.

With a roar, he leaped through the air and landed above her, trapping her. One brown-clad knee on either side of her svelte blue hips. His blue clawed hands pressing her upper arms down. His face twisted in a rictus of confusion and barely controlled rage.

He growled menacingly.

He could feel the body heat pouring off her blue form. Hear her quick, gasping breaths as she filled her lungs with life-giving oxygen. Smell her natural scent, sprung to life by a light sheen of perspiration at their brief skirmish. He looked into her yellow eyes. And she looked right at back at him.

"You gonna kill me now, Beast?"

Her question was challenge flung hatefully in his face, driven like a brutal spike into his heart.

He calmed instantly and relinquished his hold on her strong blue arms. Placed his left hand on the floor to stabilize himself.

And gently, tenderly, cupped the side of her lovely face with his right.

"What's going on?" he asked, quieter now."What are you _doing_?"

Her yellow eyes flashed and she did not answer.

"I've missed you," he murmured gently.

She seemed to soften somewhat. Her yellow eyes lost some of the wild look though they remained alert, studying him closely.

"Did you?" she whispered, the hate appearing to be driven out of her voice by his confession, his look, his touch.

He gazed at her. So close. Never this close since she had sat right down on his lap so long ago like she belonged there. Never so intimate as this at all.

"Yes. I've thought about you. Dreamed about you. Worried . . ." his voice trailed off.

The filtering light played tricks upon her scales, making them wink and shine. She was so beautiful. She was here.

"Beast, I have to go."

A lump rose in his throat. He murmured around it, trying not to beg. She might respond to an entreaty, but never a beg. She would find it weak.

"Stay. We can figure this out. Help you get back . . . your son."

Were those shimmers of tears welling up in her eyes? Had he finally gotten through to her at last?

"I can't," she whispered and her voice sounded full of yearning and regret.

She was so warm, so real. So alive. She was here.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, stay."

She stared up at him, right hand still above her head as it had fallen and left hand moving up to lightly touch his brown clad arm just above the elbow.

He instinctively moved his right hand from her blue scaled cheek to carefully cover her left hand. Caressing her upturned palm lightly with his fingertips while also subconsciously tracking the movements of that hand against assault, against her, unpredictable her.

And slowly, ever so slowly, leaning down. Sensing rather than seeing her other hand rise from the floor, reaching up to clasp his head.

Running her fingers through his blue fur, pulling him down slowly to meet her. His body now lay atop hers. Heart pounding loudly in his ears. He could feel so much of her. And he was sure she could feel more of him than he should prefer.

But he didn't care. She was here.

Searching her eyes. Seeing consent. Desire.

And he kissed her.

Gently, tenderly. Showing her how much he still cared. All his emotion for her, locked deep away for so long, now expressed in the single action of meeting her soft flesh with his own.

Her lips moved in rhythm with his, opening just a little, just enough. The sweet taste of her made his entire body buzz and grow warmer. Her searching fingers tracing fiery trails in his blue fur, around his pointed beast ears. He heard a small, soft sound escape her throat and it inflamed his heightened senses all the more.

Raven. Mystique. She was here. He was kissing her. And she, she was finally letting him.

And it was perfect. Nothing else mattered in that moment.

For Hank McCoy.

His positioning was perfect for her to bring her knee up. And she did. Hard and fast. Right in his crown jewels. The gut-wrenching fist of pain twisted instantly into his stomach, sending acidic bile burning into his throat. Breath escaped him and his lungs refused to function properly. He gasped, a stifled growl of a groan emitting from between his clenched beast teeth as he began to crumple to the floor.

She squirmed out from underneath him, making good her escape as he clutched his damaged goods and tried not to vomit on the floor. He dimly heard the clanking of her picking up the small bag again. And the gun. Her scent fading away from him. Heard her running footsteps diminish as his vision filled with red, gold, and blue designs of the Persian carpet that threatened to rush up and meet his face.

"I'm sorry, Beast," her voice growing fainter, as she drew away. Away from him.

She even sounded sincere.

_Me too. Ugh._

And then he woke up from his dream.

Panting, growling, and blue furred.

And he wasn't quite himself for several days afterward.

* * *

**Well, well, how about that? Hmm, you all okay? Need a moment? *winks knowingly**

**Alright. Now that you've recovered . . .**

**Oh, my good grief, have you seen the photos of Beast and Mystique together? What is that about? My first thought was 'oh my' immediately followed by my second thought "this guy's about to get kneed right in the junk'. Haha. Anyway, between those pics and angeleye02's review prompt (thank you, sweetie!), I just had to write something about it.**

**Yes, yes. I know not even his subconscious mind would have any idea at all about Mystique's son, Kurt. Let's just wave goodbye to reality here, people. We are dealing with mutants after all, yes? ;)**

**Just to be clear: This chapter ain't smut. I already said I don't write it, yeah? I write right up to the edge and then I stop. So there. ;)**

**Oh and for a change of pace and a laugh, Youtube "Mcavoy Attacks Hoult". Hilarious!**

**Thanks to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, Shelllee24, angeleye02, Jinx of the 2nd Law (thanks for the info), lupoea2, lol, theFGnat, and brigid1318 for your positive reviews.**

**Thanks as well to Efnie, blueoctober, Rosy Nic, and hgwebber27 for adding your support to this tale.**


	13. Teddybears and Geckos

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 13: Teddybears and Geckos

* * *

'I see a bad moon arisin', I see trouble on the way . . .'

From the first moment he heard that song in April 1969, heard those words, felt the twangs of the guitar chords work their way up his spine, he felt the tickling, cold fingers of disquiet and dread worm their way to his brain.

Though he couldn't explain why.

'Don't go around tonight. Well, it's bound to take your life . . ."

_This shouldn't be so disturbing. Especially if they're just looking for the bathroom. Apparently, it's on the right._

Then he heard it more clearly again a few days later.

'There's a bad moon on the rise . . .'

_Oh._

And his chill deepened. All the way down to his toes.

It felt like the musicians were sending out an urgent warning. To all listeners. Everywhere. Serious forewarnings of impending doom, hidden behind jaunty, upbeat riffs and tenor voices.

But against what?

_What do they know?_

Hank seemed to feel the hysteria rising all around. It permeated the air, thick enough to be cut with a knife.

He and Charles watched new broadcasts in disbelief as event after event destroyed the lives of so many people.

On good days, he and his lovely friend Hope joked about going to Woodstock. "The Summer of Love". Neither of them being really that into mud and free love, they mutually decided not to go.

On bad days, he scoured the news reports obsessively. Riots and protests, fear and anger, confusion and mayhem. It all seemed to be getting worse. The world seemed to be building up more and more steam for some sort of cataclysmic explosion.

And then, there it was. The thing that almost tore him down completely.

The Manson family murders.

All those poor souls brutally slaughtered by people who looked like everyone else.

And Charles Manson, that man with his black, soulless eyes staring out at the world. Orchestrator of death and mayhem.

_Maybe if humans can't treat each other better than that, then they deserve to become extinct._

_Growl._

_Yeah, I know I shouldn't think like that._

_Growl._

_I know. I'm trying, Beast._

Hank shut the heavy curtains and hid away from the world.

He was glad the sign on the gate read 'Private Property. Keep out.'

He was glad the house was set far, far back from prying eyes.

For the first time in several years, he was grateful to be secluded in the manor. It seemed to be the only safe haven left in the world.

* * *

Hope was finally achieving her dream. Going to college to study nursing. In a town several hours away. She was leaving tomorrow.

Hank was happy for her.

And devastated for himself.

It was dusk. The children were gone from the park. Hank and Hope sat on the swings and chatted their last. The sun slowly melted down behind the rosy horizon.

"I'm going to miss you, Hank."

She sounded sincere. He hoped she was.

"I'll miss you too."

_More than you can know. I'll be alone again after you leave. Well, there is Charles. So that means I'll really be alone._

"I'll be coming back for holidays and vacations."

_I'll have to invent new ones to bring you back more._

"Yeah."

She looked speculatively at him as he resolutely studied in his feet so she couldn't see the pain behind his eyes.

"Hank . . . can I show you something?"

He looked up at her, curious.

"It's a secret," she whispered conspiratorially, with a wink. "So you can't tell anybody."

And suddenly he knew. He'd watched her in the diner during her shift many times. No matter what happened, who jostled her, what fell, she never dropped anything. And he knew.

Hope took a deep breath as if gathering her courage. Then with her index finger, she carefully reached out and touched the bridge of his glasses. Slowly, she drew her finger back. His glasses slowly pulled off his face and dangled as if by magic, from the tip of her finger.

"Ta-da," she intoned in a singsong voice, a slip of a grin on her face.

After a moment, she took the glasses in both hands normally and leaning forward, gently placed them back on his face. Her fingers lightly brushed his temples and upper cheekbones as she did so.

He tried not to move, reveling in her simple, gentle touch.

"I've never shown anybody except my mom. But you seem . . . well . . . different."

"Can I see?" he requested, the scientist in him jumping up and down in excitement.

She nodded, holding up one hand. He steadied her trembling upturned hand with his own cupped underneath it and closely inspected her fingertips. He brushed his own fingers across them.

"I don't see or feel anything," he said in wonder.

Suddenly, her fingertips grew thick pads of whitish sticky substance. It looked like dried Elmer's glue. He touched them and his fingers stuck to hers. She giggled and held on to his fingers with hers for a few long seconds.

Then released.

"You're a mutant," he said happily.

"Yep," she admitted easily. "And a heck of a football catch in the backyard with my brother. Never dropped a ball. Drove him crazy. It first happened when I was nine. I was climbing a tree with my brother and we fell. My sticky fingers caught me on the last branch and kept me from breaking my arm like my brother did. My mom said it was a blessing but not to tell anyone else. She said people wouldn't understand."

He grinned slyly.

"Can you climb walls?"

She giggled, rolling her warm brown eyes at him.

"No, I'm not Spiderwoman. More like a gecko."

He grinned.

"They're unique creatures."

She laughed and retorted.

"Yeah, they lick their own eyeballs."

He pasted a serious expression on his face.

"Can _you_ do that?"

She smacked his arm playfully.

"No, I use a washcloth."

He widened his eyes comically for dramatic effect.

"Really? On your _eyeballs_?"

She dissolved into giggles.

"Oh hush."

They chuckled together and his heart ached all the more to know she was leaving.

"So I _am_ leaving tomorrow, it's true. But you'll always be 'stuck' with me," she quipped.

She raised an eyebrow playfully at her own pun. He shook his head in mock derision. In the near dark, with her brown hair pulled into a simple ponytail and her cockeyed grin, she looked like herself. Only herself.

And he wanted to kiss her.

"Ouch," he teased instead. "That one really hurt."

Her grin widened.

"Yeah, it's another one of my many gifts," she replied loftily.

He wanted to kiss her so much. And he thought she just might let him.

Instead, he took off his socks and his shoes. And stood up.

She watched him, a baffled expression on her face.

"Now I have a secret for you," he said, wondering anxiously what her reaction would be. He had to take the chance. "Please don't be afraid."

It was full dark now. No one around to see. So he showed her the beast. Let the blue fur cover his body. Distort his face. Point his teeth and his ears. Ripple his muscles.

Hope gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my gosh, Hank!" she whispered, standing. She looked at him for several long moments without moving or speaking. "That's incredible!"

He smiled nervously in the dark.

"Can I . . . touch you?" she requested.

_Oh yes please._

He nodded as she stroked his face, the fur on his jawline, his distended cheekbones.

"And you can change back and forth?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I developed a serum to regulate my system and help me stay balanced. It's like a . . . diabetes injection."

She seemed to contemplate this all the while continuing to touch his blue fur. It was getting difficult to think with her hands caressing his face so gently.

"Did I ever tell you that blue is my favorite color?" she whispered.

He smiled. He could have easily tipped forward and kissed her forehead, gratefully rested his lips there for a moment against her skin. He didn't.

"Yes."

Then she hugged him in all his furry. Her chin came just up to the top of his chest and when she snuggled her head down, her cheek rested on his collarbone. He hugged her back, enjoying the feeling of her warmth against him.

He did not tell her about the X-Men. He did not tell her about Erik. Or Mystique.

He didn't tell her about any of it. He didn't want to.

Then he let the beast melt away, put on his socks and shoes, and walked her home.

* * *

'The thrill is gone, the thrill is gone away from me . . ."

The world was a mess.

Charles was just as bad as ever.

And his Hope was gone.

They called each other, wrote to each other sometimes. But he only saw her during holidays and vacations. And with all the fearsome goings-on in the world, he worried something might happen to her.

In a world that seemed to be bent on destroying itself, Hank mused alone of those who were now gone.

Cassidy, code-named Banshee. Red hair with freckles. Smart-aleck attitude that gave him courage enough jump out of a third story window and nearly break his neck. Erik shoving the poor kid off the receiver dish, his mutant instincts finally taking over. His obvious terror transforming into sheer exhilaration and joy as he flew. Well, _glided_ on his supersonic sound waves, really.

That red haired supersonic-waved high flyer named after wailing spirit had disappeared without a trace. Just like all the others. Had he been kidnapped? Or had he simply broken his nerve and fled for fear of detection like the rest of them?

Darwin dead. Killed by Shaw redistributing Alex's powers. Darwin, whose system adapted to survive anything. Except the one final blast of his friend's energy. Holding out his hand at the last as if to say _don't blame yourself, Alex._

Hank knew Alex did. He would have felt the same.

After that, Alex carried it with him always, never setting it down. That, along with all his other failings. And Hank hadn't known how to help him. Alex probably would have only shrugged it off with a sarcastic remark anyway. Defense mechanism and all that.

Being made fun of. Always being made fun of. Except by her. Learning to just accept it and walk away. Though his frustration burned within him.

_'Bozo'? Really? 'Bigfoot'? Why don't I just call you 'Ring of Fire'? Or you 'Fearless Flying Squirrel'? How would you feel about that?_

Angel gone off. First with Shaw. Then with Erik.

Would it have been better for her if Erik and Charles to have left her there in the gentlemen's club? Instead of joining Shaw and becoming part of something so wrong? That lovely little winged creature, now twisted and manipulated into Shaw's and Erik's way of thinking.

And her. Always her.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never completely let go of her.

It had all been such an exciting time. Finally meeting others with mutant abilities. Working with them. Designing apparatuses to help them focus and hone their amazing abilities. Being a part of something instead of just hovering on the edges.

And now, it and they were gone, like it had never been.

And though Charles was still around, it wasn't the same Charles. The first Charles was young, full of confidence and power. He was a mentor, a leader. He was a professor. Right down to his core.

This second Charles was a alcohol-smudged, serum-hungry, self-pitying shell of a man.

Hank thought that even if it hurt, the man he'd once known would feel better, feel more hopeful if he was contributing and using his powers.

But Hank could not get through to him. He had tried and failed so many times.

Sometimes it was just easier to let him be.

He went downstairs, found the second Charles, and joined him in a drink.

And another. And another.

At one point, Hank looked over at Charles and in his inebriated state, he saw him. Hair down around his face, bloodshot eyes staring three feet past the floor and a chill ran over him.

_He's starting to look like that Manson guy. He could destroy us all. If he gets too bad, I think he just might._

And then before the beast could come out and harm his friend in a drunken haze of fear and clarity, Hank passed out.

And the next morning with a pounding, aching head and heart full of renewed misery, he paid for it. Physically, emotionally, and mentally.

He decided he was not going to try to drink his misery away anymore. From now on, he would face it, no matter how challenging.

_Hope would be really angry with me if she came back and I was a useless drunk. Plus, it's stupid. There can only be one useless drunk in this house. And I'm not it._

Suddenly, he sneezed and he swore he felt his eyeballs explode.

_Ugh. And, it hurts._

'The thrill is gone away from me. Although I'll still live on. But so lonely I'll be . . .'

* * *

**Yep, yep. That's Creedence Clearwater Revival with 'Bad Moon Risin'' followed by B.B. King with 'The Thrill is Gone'.**

**Now, if you're all disappointed in this chapter as opposed to the last one, just remember. Life's not always about big moments. It's made up of little ones too.**

**Also, I purposefully gave Hope only a minor mutant ability because I didn't want it to be a big thing. I think Hank needs to be with a mutant who's comfortable with herself and can function in normal society because that's what _he _wants to do. And that's not really so bad a desire, is it? To function and be accepted?**

**And I know that was not entirely accurate gecko information, but hey, we're here for fun, yeah?**

**Let me preface this by saying I _LOVE_ X-Men: First Class. However, you simply _must_ YouTube "Everything Wrong with X-Men First Class"! I literally had tears by the end it was so funny! Gonna go watch again!**

**So, thanks to Shelllee24, theFGnat, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, angeleye02, brigid1318, and a very enthusiastic mystery guest for reviewing on that last killer chapter. **

**And thank you to Kyre for also taking the time to talk to me. I am quite honored and truly moved by your words, sweetie. :) **

**Thanks to Remember the BadWolf for adding your support to this story as well.**


	14. Light and Darkness

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 14: Light and Darkness

* * *

_Wow, now I've got all three channels _and_ PBS. That's cool._

Not that the additional channel made anything any better. The world was still in turmoil and he still couldn't figure out how to stop it. Or help Charles.

Well, maybe 'Mr. Roger's Neighborhood' helped. A little.

_Man, that guy seems nice. Um, what's going on with the puppets? Okay, I need to change the channel._

So he watched a news broadcast instead. And fervently wished he had stayed in the Neighborhood of Make Believe.

* * *

During 1970, Hank McCoy turned himself inside out with worry over Hope. If something that terrible could happen at a regular school like Kent State, it could happen at her school as well.

And so he was very relieved when she made it home for a break.

He almost swept her up in his grateful human arms and kissed her but he didn't.

"Let's go for a movie," she suggested as they walked along.

The day was warm and lightly rainy. They strolled along together under a big blue and white umbrella that Hope had brought from her house. Her right arm was tucked comfortably in his left and he felt like he could walk with her just like that forever.

"Ok."

They walked past the little diner where she had first reached out to a very depressed and withdrawn him. He glanced over at her with a smile.

She looked fresh and light and happy in a white lacey blouse and short blue skirt encircled by a thin silver belt. Her brown hair was longer, straighter now. She wore flat white sandals on her feet. She hardly ever wore heels because she said they hurt her feet.

Her toenails were painted orange. They were always painted orange.

She'd once said that's how she took him with her. Orange toenails for his orange eyes. Their little secret.

She wore a content expression as she so often did, her bright eyes looking, seeing everything.

Just like she had first looked and seen him.

Arriving at the movie theater, she studied the posters. He studied her.

"Hmm, what'll it be?" she questioned, perusing their choices.

He drew his eyes away from her to the movie posters, trying to think what a girl would like.

"Um, 'Love Story'?" he suggested.

She wrinkled her nose prettily in distaste.

"Er, um, no . . ."

_Oh thank goodness._

". . . but what about 'Kelly's Heroes'?"

He looked at her sideways, surprised, but thinking he really shouldn't be.

"Really?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, that Oddball looks like fun. I choose fun, not crying."

One of the things he liked about the two of them was that they were both mutants. Mutants who could pass through society normally. And though they knew of each other's special abilities, they didn't have to focus on them. The abilities were there, a part of them, but that wasn't _all_ they were.

They were just them.

And right now, Hope wanted to relax and laugh instead of be sad or angry.

And Hank was most glad to join her.

So they watched the movie and learned from Oddball all about negative waves and the importance of positive ones.

* * *

Hope had a brother who went off to war and didn't make it back. When they sent a flag in his remembrance in 1971, she took a break from her studies and came home to mourn with her family.

When Hank came to see her and offer his condolences, she cried on his shoulder as he sat and held her lightly. Stroking her hair.

'Riders on the storm, riders on the storm . . .'

Thinking of them. Havoc. Angel. Banshee. Erik. Mystique. Darwin. Chloe. So many others. Lost to war. Lost to fear. Lost to themselves. And those who cared about them.

He said nothing, just held her. In the present situation, words seemed like hollow, worthless things that would only invalidate her pain.

'Into this house we're born, into this world we're thrown . . .'

So he just let her cry.

And when her tears ran dry and she was calm again, she looked at him with her big brown eyes and smiled only because she _chose_ to smile.

"Thank you, Hank."

And kissed him on the cheek.

He let her.

* * *

1972 was a bad year for Charles. Which meant it was tough for Hank as well.

He found him in the blue-grey tiled hallway, sitting on the cold, hard floor. The round steel door to Cerebro on his right.

"Charles? Are you okay?" he asked cautiously.

"No."

The reply was too simple to be true for the shaggy haired man in the slovenly, soiled clothing. Hank waited patiently.

"I have no purpose, Hank."

Should he even try to comfort him, knowing this would play out as so many other encounters did? Yes, of course he should. He must.

For his friend. For Charles.

Hank took a deep, slow breath. And got started.

"You did once, Charles. You could again."

From the floor, Charles shook his head in a defeated gesture.

"No, no. I can't. It hurts too much. To have all those voices crying out in my head. And I can't help them all."

Well, that was true.

"Maybe not. But if I adjust the dosage, you could try. Just a little. It might make you feel better."

Charles seemed to consider this. Then he shook his head and hefted himself drunkenly up off the floor.

"No, I don't think so, my friend. Too much time, you know. Too much time gone by."

Hank sighed.

_Of course. _

He remembered when he had first thought up the idea for Cerebro back when he was working alone in the government facility. A way to find mutants. Others like him. People who would understand what it was like to not be normal. Then he wouldn't have to be alone anyone. Maybe they would accept him instead of just laughing and pointing. He'd worked so hard on it and when it was done, he'd felt such pride. Just as he'd felt at the creation of the Blackbird. Completely ignoring the fact that it resembled a giant golf ball, he looked at it and dreamt of the possibilities. Even gave it a cool name. Spanish for 'brain'.

The exhilaration of testing it on Charles. With the intimidating Erik looking watchfully on. And heart-stoppingly lovely Raven as well. Letting the calm and collected scientist in him take over just so he could focus and function in her glowing presence. Flipping switches, turning dials. Hopefully inquiring as to the removal of Charles' hair, which would have enhanced the conductivity between the machine and brain even more. And when it started working, rapidly churning out lines of coordinates, identifying the locations of more mutants out there in the world, he'd felt a huge burst of adrenaline. Shouting out to them, seeing Charles in the rush of the experience and the others with their own separate reactions.

Everything seemed to be coming together. Anything was possible.

And now, nothing was.

_I worked so hard to design and a build such a unique and useful machine and now it gathers dust and helps no one, you jerk. Just like us._

But Charles looked so forlorn that Hank was not ready to give up on him for tonight just yet.

"If you say so, Charles." He hesitated. "Come on, why don't we go upstairs and play chess, okay?"

* * *

"Your turn, Erik."

The game was not going well.

"Charles, I'm Hank. _Hank_."

Charles gazed blearily at him from across the board.

"Yes, I know that. Of course, you are. The one and only, yes?"

A few moves later, Charles forgot the game again.

"You know, Erik, the humans do have the potential . . ."

Hank gritted his teeth.

_Growl._

_I know, he's getting worse. Too late at night. Too much alcohol. Too much exhaustion. This was a bad idea._

_Growl._

_No, you may not 'talk' to him. But thanks._

_Growl._

_Go on back to sleep, Beast._

_Grrr . . ._

Charles was rambling on, unaware of Hank's internally conflicted machinations.

". . . they only need the _guidance_, Erik. I keep telling you . . ."

Hank tried once more.

"Charles. I'm Hank. Look at me. I'm _Hank_."

Charles' face darkened suddenly. He shot up out of his chair and threw his glass which shattered against the fireplace explosively. Hank refused to flinch.

"You're not listening to me, Erik! You never _listened_!"

Hank stood up.

"Okay, I'm done here," he said quietly. "Goodnight, Charles."

He left quickly, highly relieved that Charles' serum incapacitated his mind control powers.

* * *

'I'm not the man they think I am at all . . .'

The song really soared. Hank turned it up every single time he heard it.

'Oh no, no, no, I'm a rocket man. Rocket man . . ."

The only thing that really frustrated him was that he couldn't understand all the words.

'_Burning out this useless telephone'? Or is it 'shoes, a pair are gone'? _

_Well, I don't care._

He settled for humming it.

He did know that whenever he heard that song, it was all he could do to stay put where he was. To stay and look after the house and look after Charles. To continue whatever scientific endeavor he was working on.

He wanted to escape. To be free. Go out and see the world. Anywhere. Everywhere. Just go.

'And I think it's gonna be a long, long time . . .'

But then the song would end and then he would remember that he was afraid to permanently leave the safe haven of the manor. He would remember he needed that security for himself. And his serum. He would remember he needed his media station to search for information.

And he would remember Charles, poor, lonely Charles. Charles who had lost too much, who clung it this existence but didn't really live it anymore.

Charles, whom he could not abandon. Charles, his friend.

* * *

**Alrighty, so . . .**

**Nearly cheered out loud at the "all three channels plus PBS" remark. Growing up in the '80s and '90s on a country farm, this was literally ALL we had. My grandparents had basic cable 'cause they lived in town. I thought their tv programming was amazing. Now my husband and I live in a suburb and have satellite and **_**LOADS**_** of channels. Nearly nothing worthwhile on any of them now that it's summer. Dang it.**

**Oh, and 'Mister Roger's Neighborhood'? Seriously, that's hands down my fondest childhood media memory. That guy **_**cared**_**, you all. I mean, the dude **_**really **__**cared**_**. And for a laugh, Youtube (I know I keep saying it, shut up) 'Epic Rap Battles of History: Mr. T. vs Mr. Rogers'. I watch it over and over and still cheer every single time. At what you may ask? Don't worry, you'll know it when you get there.**

**And here's a little something for you Hunger Games fans (yep, I'm one too – books and movies). Youtube 'Kelly's Heroes Oddball - Negative Waves'. Click the 1 minute clip for the short and sweet version. I dare you. See that? **_**That's**_** your President Snow. Kinda takes the fear away a little, now doesn't it? **

**Yep, that's **_**the**_** Donald Sutherland along with **_**the**_** Harry Dean Stanton who I swear has been stoned for, I don't know, like 80 years or something. Anyway, enough of my old guy 'shipping.**

'**Riders on the Storm' by The Doors. Yep, that just happened.**

"**Rocket Man" by Sir Elton John? No words needed here. And yes, I did steal a mis-quote from that Passat car commercial. No shame, me.**

**Thanks to the ever loyal brigid1318, theFGnat, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, Voodoo-Mutant-Child, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, Shelllee24, and a very kind guest (question answered in ch. 15) for reviewing. **

**Thanks to moerie for adding your support to this tale.**

**Last chapter coming up. Fifteen in all from start to finish. Okay, let's bring it on home, people . . .**


	15. A Girl and a Guy

I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 15: A Girl and a Guy

* * *

Hank McCoy woke up early that morning and looked out the window at the peaceful, green vista that lay before him. He thought of everything that had happened from the day he'd first met that group of special recruits in the government facility.

The victories. The defeats.

He thought of all they had lost.

He thought of her.

Raven. Mystique.

Beautiful and blond. Red and blue. Smiling and crying. Happy and oh so angry.

Gone so abruptly. Gone so long.

Leaving them who needed her most. Leaving them behind like so much refuse, used and then discarded.

And then he thought of another her.

Hope. A name and an emotion.

A dark haired beauty with sticky mutant fingers and a warm, peaceful soul. Her with the positive waves and light in her eyes. Her who kept her toenails painted orange as a secret way to carry him with her.

A her who had not left. Well, she had but not really. A her who had been a loyal and accepting friend for five of the darkest, most difficult years of his entire, short life.

A her whom he felt cared for him deeply. And who could care, would care for him more and desired to be cared for by him. If he would only let go and do it.

And he knew he had waited long enough.

He made his decision. He was going to follow through with it.

He was going to leave the manor today and drive to her college.

He would stop somewhere and buy three roses. One white for the purity and light of her and her goodness. One yellow for their friendship that had saved him from the all-consuming darkness of his flatline existence. One red for the deep feelings he had refrained from expressing for so very long.

He would find her and offer the roses to her along with his heart. Tell her how grateful he was that she helped him survive the last five years. Tell her that she was perfect and wonderful and that he loved her.

And then he would _finally_ kiss her.

He'd already decided.

And the decisions beyond that? Well, he wasn't going to concern himself with those just yet. He, _they_, could figure that part out together later.

And Charles would just have to take care of himself for a while.

Because Hank was going to see about a girl.

He cleaned and groomed himself even more carefully than usual, the beast within him rumbling happily. He dressed himself neatly in bright colors because she was bright. And she had shared that brightness and light with him when he needed it most. And so he dressed himself in dark brown pants, a yellow shirt with thin blue stripes, and a rust-orange colored long sleeve shirt over that.

He checked his appearance nervously in the full length mirror after putting on his socks and shoes. He thought he looked good. Confident and mature. Relaxed and modern. A person with _life_ inside him. Checked his breath again. Good. Brushed his hair again. Good. Mused over his slight shadows of facial hair. That was good too. Made him look more like a man instead of a boy. Cleaned his glasses extra well.

'I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style . . .'

He stood fidgeting in the sunlit room for a few moments more, gathering the needed courage to just get up and _go_.

'And so I went to see him and listen for a while . . .'

The bluesy tune emitting from the transistor radio wasn't really his type of music but afterward he would always remember it clearly. Because after he reached over and turned the distracting song off, he heard the sound of a rumbling car engine breaking the quiet day outside. Moving to the large window, he saw a big, muscular guy in jeans, boots, blue paisley shirt, and a brown leather jacket exit a black muscle car and head to the front door of Xavier Manor.

The guy had some wild-looking brown hair.

He looked dangerous. Brutal. Animalistic.

The gate, the gate had been closed. He always closed it upon returning from one of his departures. But now here was this big guy and he looked like he had a clear, serious purpose. Like he knew exactly where he was and what he was here for.

Hank headed downstairs to send the guy back on his way.

_Hope this isn't going to take too long._

The knocker thumped against the door three solid times.

Hank McCoy reached for the handle.

And opened the door.

* * *

**And that's the end of that.**

**So . . . what do you think?**

**Catch the 'Good Will Hunting' reference? Not my fav movie, but definitely some good stuff in there.**

**Hank opened the door of the manor so quickly after Wolverine knocked, I just figured there had to be a reason. So here it is. If you don't like it, write the version you prefer, yeah? *winks**

**Some curious person several chapters back inquired as to what age I thought Hank was. In my eyes, he's 18 or so in FC which would make him 28 or so in DoFP. But really, I'm just guessing.**

**And that song is "Killin' Me Softly" by Roberta Flack. I simply **_**had**_** to put it in here as a distraction for Hank. NH sang it in the move 'About a Boy'. Warning: Watch the singing clip on Youtube only if you are prepared to die of embarrassment and shame. It is just **_**so**_** bad. Sorry sweetie, but it is. And it's supposed to be, so that's okay.**

**I really hope you've enjoyed this story. I wasn't expecting to write it, but I did enjoy discovering Hank's journey and I appreciate all the feedback from everyone. I tried really hard to stay true to the characters and cannon and all that (well, except for Hope, I know, but my goodness, our poor Hank was seriously _drowning_ without someone to buoy him up, okay?).**

**Nicholas Hoult is a fantastic actor (seriously, 'Warm Bodies' – **_**GO, people, GO!)**_** and ****somewhat overlooked I believe, but I hope I did his character justice here. I really cared about Hank, wanted him to naturally evolve just a little because he does seem to have done so from FC to DoFP. **

**As a final sendoff, then. Youtube: "Hoult Amazed by Twinkies". Last week I was in a store and saw them and _could not_ buy and eat blue Twinkies with Beast staring at me, going "You're not _really_ going to eat _another_, are you?" Um, well, yeah, I was _gonna_. Can't now. Thanks, dude.**

**I've had requests to write Hank's POV from DoFP (which would be so awesomely fun!), but I can't until the DVD comes out. I insist on getting every single quote correct and every single scene perfect so I guess I'll just have to wait. Kind of a bummer. Maybe if I'm lucky, it will come out by September and I can write it then. If nobody else does it better first, that is.**

**Would you be interested in reading it if I wrote it? I've already got a couple of notes jotted.**

**A final thanks to lupoea2, Shanynde, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, MonstrousWalnut, de cineribus renascitur, angeleye02, emiliarose357, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, Kh530, Voodoo-Mutant-Child, BlackShadow23, Squintz18, Shelllee24, Aletta-Feather, theFGnat, brigid1318, and guest lol (_never_ apologize for having a life, sweetie!) for being such dedicated reviewers.**

**A great, big, huge thanks to ChiefPam for reading this entire story in one sitting! Oh my sweet Christmas, did your _eyeballs_ fall out?! Bless you, sweetie! :D**

**Most grateful thanks to HelloILikeIt for the sparking review! Wow! **

**Thanks to comealongsong, lula . m . cast, princessyuki08, ABewilderedBear, Hermione Sparkle, LilyEvans2510, WIP-Writer In Progress, TheShadowCat008, Mikari Satsuke, Princess Of Darkness12, SuperPotterMerWhoLocked, Mog161, Magic Detective, ranlou, Utopiste, and I've Been a Labrat (Magneto quote from FC?*grins) for adding your support to this story as well.**

**You've all been so supportive and kind and I appreciate all you readers (vocal and silent alike) for coming along with me on this journey.**

**Thank you so much for reading and be well. :)**


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